


Act of Sage

by hotelmichelle



Series: 2012 'verse [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Avengers: Endgame (Movie) - Alternate 2012 Timeline, Bucky thinks Steve is his handler, Canon-Typical Violence, Depressed Steve Rogers, Domestic Avengers, Fix-It of Sorts, Food Issues, Implied/Referenced Torture, It's Not Paranoia If They're Really Out To Get You, Legal Drama, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers and the 21st Century, Suicidal Ideation, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Touch-Starved Bucky Barnes, general Winter Soldier trauma, main MCU timeline? who is she, time is a social construct and I say it's 2012
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:00:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 64,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24602752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotelmichelle/pseuds/hotelmichelle
Summary: After the Battle of New York, Steve finds a strange note in his apartment. It’s his handwriting, but he sure as hell would’ve remembered writing this.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov, Steve Rogers & Tony Stark
Series: 2012 'verse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1902526
Comments: 380
Kudos: 644





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is entirely written out and just needs to be edited. Pre-edits, it’s ~65k. It’s basically going to be like I took down a list of 2012 Avengers/2014 Winter Soldier fic tropes and then said, “let’s see how many of these I can fit into a post-Endgame (kinda?) fic.” We are not visiting the main MCU timeline ~~because I ain't no maid and I'm not cleaning somebody else's mess.~~
> 
> Updates twice a week (Wednesday and Sunday). I will also update tags/warnings as I go. Some chapters will be beta read, most probably won’t be. What can I say? Life is strange right now.

When Steve comes to, he’s flat on his back on the smooth concrete floor. Foggy, he sits up, blinking to clear his eyes. The room tilts and overcorrects.

“Nice of you to join us,” Tony chirps, fallaciously sweet. He’s leaning against the wall, frantically tapping his thumbs against the screen of his phone. Without looking up, he goes on. “Watch the broken glass.”

Steve doesn’t respond until he can move his head without losing his bearings on gravity. “What happened?”

“We lost Loki,” Barton says, from a dining chair that doesn’t match their surroundings. “That’s what happened.”

Fighting Loki comes back to Steve like a headrush. He’d run into Loki disguised as himself, complete with a startingly realistic shield. They’d fought, and then fallen from a walkway at least two stories up. “He took the scepter,” Steve realizes.

Tony looks up from his phone. “Yeah, we got that. He didn’t happen to mention why he came back up here, did he?”

No, but he did say–…

Steve’s own compass had been on the ground after Loki fell, when it should have been safely stored on the helicarrier. Of course, Loki’d been trying anything he could to distract Steve. But how had he known about Bucky in the first place? Last Steve heard, Loki was from another planet. Maybe the specter lets him read minds, too…?

“Are you feeling alright, Captain?” Thor is watching Steve closely, one hand on his chin.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. That scepter really packs a punch, that’s all.”

Thor smiles easily. He strides over and offers Steve a hand, pulling him up. Steve wavers, then rights himself. 

“Indeed, it does. So, the sooner we locate Loki and the scepter, the better. Did he say anything to you that could help us?”

Steve hesitates. “No. I–…No, he didn’t say anything important.”

Crossing his arms, Tony narrows his eyes at Steve. “Uh, no offense, Cap, but you’re kinda out of the loop. How about’s you tell us exactly what he said, and Norse God here can decide if it’s important or not.”

Jesus H Christ, Tony sure knows how to run his mouth. Steve squares his shoulders, facing Tony straight on. “He said he didn’t want to hurt me. Happy, Stark?”

“How sweet. When’s the wedding, Cap?”

“What?”

“In that case, I’m afraid I must return to Asgard immediately,” Thor interrupts. “I do not believe Loki would stay on Earth after stealing the specter and the cube, when his army has been soundly defeated. My home world faces a grave danger if Loki is free.”

Barton raises his head to give Thor a tired wave. “Nice meeting you,” he offers.

Thor beams. “Yes, it is nice to meet you. And all of you, as well. You are noble warriors, and I am sure we will see each other again soon.” He mimics Clint’s wave to each of them.

They bid him goodbye and he starts to raise his hammer, then aborts the motion and lowers it awkwardly. “I suppose I should do this outdoors,” he says.

“What a nice guy!” Tony exclaims, as Thor makes his exit.

“Where are the others?” Steve asks. “There’s still a whole city full of people out there that need our help.”

Groaning, Barton stands gingerly. He brushes off Tony’s teasing about getting old and starts looking around aimlessly. “Where’s my bow? Did I leave it upstairs?” When no one has a clue, Clint wanders off with a promise to meet them in the lobby after he’s found it.

“God, this is a mess. He’s a mess,” Tony says. It’s too soft to be malicious. “Look, I’d love to help with the cleanup, but I gotta get this thing checked out first.”

Steve eyes the glowing shape on his chest. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, no big deal. Just had a mild cardiac dysthymia in the lobby earlier. Very mild. But a little mysterious, so. Go on without me, and all that.”

With that, Tony turns and walks into the mangled mess of his tower.

Steve, Barton, and Romanoff coordinate the search and rescue effort for a little while. Truly, there’s only so much they can do; the streets are littered with debris and NYFD can hardly keep up with all the structure fires that keep sparking from downed power lines. Even the cables they tucked underground weren’t completely safe from Loki’s army. The subway is shut down and most of the city is left in the dark as the sun starts to sink.

When the National Guard looks like its got a command of things, Steve and the others bow out and head back for the Tower.

In the lobby, Tony is arguing animatedly with his phone to his ear. “It’s only dinner, Pep,” he's saying. “I’m not going to drop dead while eating shawarma, Cho said. Oh! Hold on. They’re back. Gotta go.” Tony hangs up. “You guys still on for shawarma? Because I am _starving_.”

Barton waves Tony off, walking straight past them and for the elevators. “I am not going anywhere but the shower.”

“Let’s just order in,” Romanoff says, “we’ve been out there for a while already.”

Tony trails Steve and Romanoff into the elevator. “I wasn’t aware you were now calling the shots in _my tower_.” He presses a button that brings them to a floor with a massive conference room.

Director Fury and Maria Hill are already there with a few other agents. They’re talking to a small box in the center of the table; it must be a phone call.

“Are you the ones who tried to nuke the city?” Tony shouts at the box. “Because I, for one, did not appreciate that!”

Fury presses a button on the box that shuts up whoever’s on the other end before they get a chance to respond. “This isn’t the Council, Stark. Take that up with them.” Then, he hits the same button again and carries on the conversation they were having before one half of the Avengers barged into the room.

Steve attempts to pass information about the scene on the ground to the National Guard while Tony fiddles on his phone and Romanoff has a quiet conversation with Maria Hill.

“Goldfish?” Tony asks.

In his extended hand, he’s holding a plastic tub filled with pretzels shaped like little fish.

“Thank you,” Steve says, taking one. It’s pretty good. He takes another as he explains to the military man on the other end of the box why Central Park would be the best place for a field hospital.

Barton comes in and polishes off most of the remaining pretzel fish.

After a while, the robot in the walls speaks up. “Sir, the food you ordered has arrived in the lobby. A runner will meet you at the elevator.” Tony springs up from his chair and speeds out of the room.

The food Tony ordered is delicious, though Steve is hardly awake to enjoy it. Barton has to shake Romanoff; she’s been passed out on the expensive mahogany of the conference table for at least 15 minutes. As soon as they finish eating, Fury orders Steve and his teammates out of the room.

“Get some sleep and come back when you’re any help,” he says from the head of the table. An agent locks the doors behind them, at Fury’s direction.

Steve shrugs off a half-hearted attempt from Tony to sleep in a spare bedroom. The subway’s still down, so he lets Tony lend him a car – complete with a driver – to get back to his SHIELD-approved apartment. He doesn’t remember nodding off, but the driver has to politely wake him when they pull up outside.

The apartment is dark and quiet when Steve finally trudges his way up the 4 flights of stairs. He probably could’ve taken the elevator, but old habits had him in the stairway before he thought it through. Steve’s sorely tempted to dump his shield right there in the entry way, but resists the sudden exhaustion. He needs it in his bedroom while he sleeps, anyways. Just in case.

He drops his duffle bag on the couch, stripping off items of clothing on his way to the shower. They don’t even make it to the hamper. Does he even have a hamper? Steve doesn’t have the energy to care. The shower feels massive when he steps in, letting the hot water hit him in the face. During the war, they were lucky to get a shower at all. He and Bucky had crammed into a tiny stall just a few months ago, bumping into each other in the freezing water and the haste to scrub down and get the hell out of there.

That’s enough of the shower, then. Steve cranks the water off and mechanically dries himself, slinging the towel around his waist with a haphazard knot.

When he approaches the dresser, Steve notices a piece of paper that he can’t remember leaving there. Still in nothing but a towel, he picks it up before even going for the underwear drawer.

It’s sketch book paper; by the feel of it, way more expensive than anything he’s ever been able to afford. There’s handwriting scrawled across most of the page. _His_ handwriting.

Steve is absolutely certain that he did not write this. When he tries to read it, his eyes keep flicking down to see what’s coming a few lines below.

__

_Steve,_

_Bucky is alive. He survived the fall and was captured by HYDRA. Others will know him as “the Winter Soldier.” When you find him, he will not know you at first. Trust your instincts._

_Do not trust SHIELD. Alexander Pierce, the STRIKE team, and Jasper Sitwell are HYDRA, as are many others that you have already met. STRIKE thinks that you are one of them. I’m not sure what they will do with this information, so keep your eyes open._

_Your fellow Avengers are going to become much more than just teammates. Tony is a better person than you think he is right now. You might not always see eye to eye with him, but he deserves your honesty when the time comes. If you show this letter to anyone, it should be Natasha. She will be one of your biggest allies. Someday, you will be thankful for each of them._

_Good luck. It will be okay._

It’s signed with a simpler variation of the dancing monkey he’d drawn during the war.

With shaking hands, he lets the note float back down to the dresser, like he never picked it up at all. 

There’s no one in this century that he can go to with this and that, _that_ hurts worse than the very real possibility that he is losing it. They told him that Peggy is alive and he still trusts her unconditionally, but they also said she’s not well. His teammates seem like they could be friendly – in varying degrees – but he just met them. In this new life that he didn’t want yet doesn’t have the drive to take himself out of, there’s a condition on everybody.

Childishly, he wants Bucky. Steve doesn’t remember his life before he met Bucky; he doesn’t even remember meeting Bucky, really. He’s never, ever been truly on his own. Tears sting Steve’s eyes and he feels incredibly stupid. Twenty six is too old for a crutch, if that’s even how old he is anymore. 

Fuck, he doesn’t know what to do. Bucky would know what to do.

Steve takes the note and folds it into neat fourths, a nondescript square that looks it could’ve been torn from a sketch book to make a grocery list. He opens the nightstand drawer to tuck it inside, but he’s met with a second, smaller paper. Just a neon yellow sticky note this time, probably taken from the unused pad on his kitchen counter.

_BTW: your apartment was bugged. SHIELD/HYDRA’s doing. You’re welcome._

_  
___  


____

Steve peels the sticky note up to reveal a mess of crushed wires and metallic parts. They’ve been thrown together in one of the small bowls that came with the kitchen. He tosses the folded note inside with the rest of it and slams the drawer shut.

He paces the length of his bedroom until his towel starts to slip and he’s forced to stop long enough to dress himself.

Back to the basics. There are only two possibilities: either he wrote these notes, or he didn’t. If he did, he must have done it during some blackout or break from reality. He’s sick, then. Not fit for duty or even being on his own. They’ll commit him to some ward, and then what? If the note is true and he goes to SHIELD with this, he’s screwing himself and Bucky.

There are some major flaws in the theory that he wrote them anyways. It would mean he’d also been around his own apartment, finding bugs that he had no clue about. The stuff about Natasha and Tony makes no sense whatsoever. Steve is indifferent towards Natasha, and Tony is…well, not the kind of person that Steve would say is going to be “much more than a teammate.”

Not to mention, Steve hasn’t been home in nearly three days. He would have had to sneak away from all of SHIELD and the Avengers in the middle of a world ending event to go home and write these notes.

If he didn’t write it, who did? Steve supposes it could have been Loki, but there’s no real motive there. Thor was right; Loki would grab the cube and the scepter, and then get the hell off Earth and as far away from his brother as possible. Why would he waste time rummaging around Steve’s apartment for listening devices?

If not Loki, then…

Steve shuffles through everyone he’s met since he woke up here. Most work for SHIELD, or have been with Steve consistently since he was last in the apartment. The writer could still a third party that he hasn’t met yet.

Before climbing into bed that night, Steve retrieves the main note from the drawer – still folded up – and slips it under his pillow.

Just in case.

  
  


There’s a picture of Bucky that came with the rest of Steve’s boxed up things; stuff the Smithsonian didn’t feel fit for display.

It’s a gritty black and white, taken by Steve himself during the war. Buck looks like an old Hollywood star even though he was really in Allied France, unwashed and wearing mud caked boots. His dark hair is all mused up from his helmet. It’d gotten so long that shortly after the picture was taken, he’d finally given in and let Steve hack at it with a pair of dull scissors.

The real life wartime Bucky was constantly in motion; he’d squirmed underneath Steve and pushed him around and then slipped off to his own bed before dawn. If Bucky’s rifle or his knives were in sight, he took it as an invitation to obsessively clean them. He just couldn’t keep still unless he was lining up a shot.

But in the photograph, Bucky stares back with the same, shushed eyes. War tired and mesmeric; eternally twenty seven.

Steve takes that picture of Bucky and the note in his own handwriting that he didn’t write, and he tucks them into his shirt pocket.

  
  


A car shows up outside the building thirty minutes before Steve's Stark Tower meeting is scheduled to start. In the same conference room from yesterday, the leader of the STRIKE team – Rumlow – gives his assessment of what remains of Loki’s army. They’ve taken charge of collecting the alien bodies and weapons from the streets.

Of course, the specter is still missing. Fury gives Steve, Tony, and Barton a hard time about Thor’s disappearance, but there’s nothing they can do.

“I’d like to see you keep a flying hammer god on this planet when he doesn’t want to be here,” Tony snaps. For once, Steve appreciates his petulant comments.

Fury calls a lunch break, and Tony pointedly skips over him when he goes around asking for food orders. He calls the restaurant, speaking loudly into the phone as he wanders from the room.

Beside Steve, Romanoff’s got her hair pulled up with a little green tie. She stays in the room during their break, bent over a mess of photographs. The little plastic tub of pretzel fish things is refilled and in front of her. She takes a handful before passing it to Steve.

“What do you think, Cap?” She asks.

“Huh?”

Natasha patiently taps at the scanned document she’s pushed in front of him. “Damage Control terminating the contracts with the salvage teams.”

“We need an organized effort to ensure this stuff doesn’t fall into the wrong hands. I’m not a big fan of taking work from people on the ground, though.”

She nods in agreeance but doesn’t comment.

Steve decides to play dumb. “So, you work for SHIELD, too?”

“Yeah, why? You looking for a job?” She pops a pretzel fish into her mouth.

“Maybe.”

“Well, speak of the devil,” Romanoff mutters.

A blonde man in a grey suit and black-rimmed glasses parades into the room, flanked by a row of underlings.

Fury greets him warmly – more comfortable than Steve’s seen him with anybody else – and then turns the man towards Steve, who stands. “I don’t think you’ve had a chance to meet Captain Rogers.”

“Alexander Pierce,” the man says, offering his hand.

Dutifully, Steve shakes it. He feels like a trophy. Yes, look at this relic we found. Have you seen it yet?

“Sir,” Steve says, giving that sharp Army nod he perfected with Phillips.

“It’s an honor to meet you, Captain. My father served in the 101st.” The way he says it, it doesn’t sound like it’s really an honor; it’s tinny and false, somehow. Maybe Steve’s being paranoid.

“The honor’s all mine, Sir.”

Steve hates this song and dance, but Pierce seems to relish in it.

Feeling eyes on him, Steve spares a glance for the people still seated at the conference table. Rumlow’s eyes flick between Steve and Pierce, entertained. Amusement looks _off_ on his face. The man’s got a sinister lining beneath his skin.

Steve sits back down, between Romanoff and Rumlow. He pays attention when called upon, but he’s more interested in the dynamics of the room. Who’s friendly with who; where do the loyalties lie.

Romanoff and Barton have a clear history, as do Fury and Pierce. Whatever SHIELD is, they’re all in it deep. Tony doesn’t seem to get along with anybody except for Bruce, and even that can’t have happened too long ago. Rumlow and the rest of the STRIKE team are your typical Yes Sir special unit. Their posture loosens a bit when Pierce leaves the room, even though Fury is still speaking.

When the meeting adjourns, Steve makes a quick exit. Behind him, he can hear light footsteps trotting after him.

“Hey, Rogers,” Romanoff calls, catching up to him. He keeps up his quick pace, making her do a little jog every few steps. “You late for a date?”

“Not exactly,” Steve says politely.

“You know, if you were serious about looking for a SHIELD job–”

“I wasn’t serious. I’m not interested.”

Romanoff stops in place, letting him walk away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The picture of Bucky.](https://ibelieveingale.tumblr.com/post/104239874801)


	2. Chapter 2

His teammates from New York – the Avengers – are preoccupied with Loki and the cleanup, so it gives Steve time to work on…whatever it is he’s working on.

He’d searched “James Buchanan Barnes” on the internet during his first few days in the future. There were articles upon articles about him, all using the past tense. Steve had closed his laptop so harshly he feared he’d broken the cardboard-thin screen.

After Loki, Steve goes back to his search boxes and this time, he looks straight into the meat of the matter. It still feels a little bit like looking directly at the sun, but this time he’s got a shade of detachment. There’s a purpose; an investigation.

The death date is listed as “late February 1945,” as supplied by Timothy Dugan and James Montgomery Falsworth. It’s all lights on the screen of his computer. James Barnes was born March 10th 1917 and died February 1945. He fell off a train in the Alps. Steve reads it so many times over that it becomes another flat fact of his life. It’s got nothing to do with the Bucky who lived with him in Brooklyn, who slept beside him in France.

The story comes down to this: on the 16th of February 1945, James Barnes died at the age of 27 after falling from a train.

If Bucky is alive, then Steve’s going up against something capable of keeping a man’s existence secret for almost 67 years. Steve has never been careful about a damn thing in his life, but he might only get one chance at this. They can’t know he’s onto them until he’s ready to strike.

Actively pursuing SHIELD at this stage is off the table. He doesn’t have enough information to attempt a cover; or, he’s pretty sure he doesn’t, because Steve has never been undercover in his damn life and doesn’t have the first idea of what a cover entails.

Biding his time, Steve studies everyone he has met in this century through a lens of skepticism. Least likely to follow orders, tow the line.

Despite his personal feelings, one person tops the list: Tony Stark. Tony just isn’t the type to unquestioningly follow orders without annoying the hell out of the poor bastard who’s trying to assert themselves as his superior.

When Steve tries to picture Tony seriously saluting anybody, the picture just won’t come.

  
  


Their SHIELD meetings dwindle as the cleanup effort is essentially whisked away from them. Local authorities take over for their individual districts and neighborhoods; that’s what Steve is told. Fury says it and Romanoff says it and Sitwell says it, but Steve doesn’t buy one word.

He forces his way into the cleanup effort anyways, working with local authorities and community leaders to ensure that at least some of them really do have a say.

Not long after the Battle of New York, Clint and Natasha drop off the map. Bruce starts living at the Tower with Tony, but Steve doesn’t see much of them either. Thor is off in space – Christ, space – taking care of whatever Loki got up to.

So, Steve fills his days with meaningless errands. He goes on a jog every morning and makes a habit of finding food to eat. In the future, there are Kosher grocery stores, vegan cafes, hole-in-the-wall diners that aren’t much bigger than Steve and Bucky’s first apartment.

Above the city streets, the tower that used to say “Stark” turns into “Ave” and then “Avengers.” Steve keeps an eye on it from his winding jogging route.

Sometimes, Steve takes the subway just for the sake of it. He takes it to the terminal station, and then back again. Back and forth, back and forth. At night, after the commuters have made it home for dinner, Steve gets on his bike and does a loop around the city.

On the rare occasions that the roads open up for him, he gets a feeling like he could just go and go until he hits the other side of…something. A city of eight million and Steve’s claustrophobic.

The first week or so drags, but then three more pass in the blink of an eye. Nothing matters when your days are all the same.

One night, Steve is parking his bike when he finds a few messages from Tony on his phone. _Hey. Since Loki destroyed my tower I’m renovating_ , the first one says. _I’m building you all a floor because I’m a nice person do you want to approve the designs._ Then: _speak now or forever hold your peace._

He doesn’t want to, but. 

_Tony is a better person than you think right now._

It rattles in his skull.

Steve knows happiness, even if he doesn’t feel too in touch with it right now. Happy, secure people don’t build entire floors for some guy they fought aliens with once and didn’t even get along with.

 _Yeah I can look at them_ , he types out, envious of the kids he sees tapping away at their devices while listening to music and jogging and talking on the phone, probably.

Tony’s reply chimes in right away. _Cool come by the Tower._

Does that mean…now?

 _When?_ Steve asks.

Steve doesn’t have much to do, but Tony has a life here. During their cleanup efforts, Barton mentioned offhandedly that Tony throws parties with hundreds of guests. Google said that Tony Stark has lived in New York for most of his life.

A new message flops down from the top of Steve’s phone screen. _you can come now?_

So, Steve goes. He meets Tony’s girlfriend, Pepper Potts and sits with her over furniture catalogues while Tony messes around obnoxiously in the background. And the next week, he goes back and does it again. Then, Tony – in his own way – invites Steve to dinner one Friday and he goes to that, too.

By the last week of August, Steve’s got a regularly scheduled lunch appointment with Pepper. Under the pretense of designing the Avengers’ floors – which have been mostly finished for a while – they talk about where Steve should be apartment shopping and how the subway has hardly changed in 75 years. Sometimes, they talk about Tony. Pepper tells him about how she met Natasha, who was going by Natalie Rushman at the time.

The more he visits with Tony and Pepper, the more run-ins he has with Bruce, too. They talk about the serum a little bit, and then Bruce makes him tea the way Peggy used to tell him about; with a real kettle and tea leaves. It tastes the same to Steve, but he smiles and thanks Bruce anyways.

All in all, it’s not a terrible time. Steve shows himself a little bit and gets a little bit in return.

  
  


Near the end of one of their lunches, Pepper closes her “Avengers floors” binder with a finality.

“I’m glad you were able to help me with these, Steve. This whole thing just came on so suddenly, you know how Tony is. He wouldn’t leave it alone until it was finished. So, thanks for letting me put some of it on you.”

Steve shakes his head. “It was good. You know, to have a project.”

Pepper smiles at him, sweet and sincere. “Have you thought about what you want to do? Besides interior design.”

He watches a helicopter, just over the balcony’s edge and miles away; a dot floating through the sky. That’s how high up they are. “I’m not sure.”

“You’ve got plenty of time to decide,” she assures him. Pepper gathers up her binders. “And you’re in high demand, you know. You could do anything you wanted.”

Steve passes over a few layouts that have strayed to his side of the table. “High demand?”

“Yeah, of course. For some reason, everyone seems to think that Stark Industries is handling your media appearances.” Pepper taps her files against the table as she stands. “And just yesterday, the Secretary of the World Security Council called about you. Can you believe it? Don’t worry, I didn’t commit you to anything.”

Belatedly, Steve stands and stiffly pushes his chair in. “What did he want to know?”

“Oh, he was asking if I thought you’d be interested in relocating to DC.”

“Hm.” He gets the door, stepping aside to let her go in first.

Pepper waits for Steve so they can walk side-by-side. “Honestly, it seemed like he wanted my help in convincing you to move. I made it quite clear that I’m not getting involved, so I don’t think he’ll be calling again.”

Steve listens to the click of her little heels and tries to think.

“Oh, before I forget,” Pepper starts. She’s got a look like Steve is not going to appreciate what’s coming next. “Tony’s been saying that he has a surprise for you. He’s in his lab. I promise it’s nothing crazy.”

  
  


The lab is spotless, but it still smells faintly of dust. Tony spins around on his stool and tosses a hologram that he appears to have balled up in his hands into a loud, bright ring. “Hey, Cap,” he says over the pealing of the holograms.

“Pepper said you had something for me?”

Tony pops up and goes over to a large table that runs nearly the entire wall of the lab. “I got them in here somewhere,” he says, shoving things aside carelessly. A box full of metallic parts and papers falls to the ground and scatters its contents across the floor. Tony leans over the table to glance at it, then goes back to shuffling things around. “Ha!” He shouts, holding up a large envelope.

“These are totally legit,” Tony continues. “Or. Mostly legit. I mean, don’t try to get on a plane with it or anything, but you could get out of a ticket. Jesus, who would give you a ticket though? Ugh.” He pulls out a small card – almost like the ones you can use to buy things – and hands it to Steve.

It looks like a horribly fake driver’s license; it essentially is. Except where Steve’s new (real) driver’s license says “New York,” this one proudly proclaims, “AVENGERS.” The picture is the same as his license picture, as is the demographic information. Where does Tony get this stuff from? Steve flips the card over. It’s got a bunch of fine print and the Stark Industries logo.

“Thanks,” Steve says, slipping the card into his pocket.

Tony slides over to a workbench with a large tabletop screen. “You wanna see something cool?”

Steve really doesn’t, but he reminds himself of the plan and keeps his damn mouth shut.

“This is where all yours and Pep’s designs are gonna be in about a month. Well, maybe a couple months for all of it,” Tony swipes a hand upwards and a holographic diagram follows his hand into the air. It expands into an eight-level floor plan, with the top six levels separated from the bottom two.

Tony points to the six-floor chunk. “Here’s our floors. Mine is on top, obviously. Then, I was thinking Thor next, because, you know, the magic flying thing. You can fight Widow and Clint for the third one. I would say fight Bruce, but I’ve already had my Tower destroyed once and if that happens again before I’ve finished the rebuilds, I’m going straight to California and leaving you guys to build your own headquarters.”

Tony pauses – maybe to catch his breath. When Steve doesn’t say anything, he carries right on. “So-o-o, fight to the death it is? I bet you could take Clint, but my money’s on Widow. Have you seen her one-on-one?” Tony whistles, puts a hand up like he’s about to swear on an invisible Bible. “Cap, when I tell you that she almost killed Happy once, that is _the truth_. You go ask Pepper if you don’t believe me!”

“I believe it, Tony.”

Tony taps his temple. “I knew all that ice didn’t _completely_ fuck up your head. Just for that, I’ll give you the third floor. Don’t tell the others.” He zooms into the third floor from the top and taps twice. A little logo of Steve’s shield appears.

It seems like a good time to escape, so Steve says, “Well, thank you, Tony,” with a finality.

Tony swipes the floor plans away and stands, rubbing his hands together. “Yeah, yeah…well, don’t be a stranger, Cap.”

“See you, Tony.”

The lab’s double doors sweep open as Steve approaches.

“Hey, Cap, one more thing,” Tony calls. Steve stops and turns around just short of the doors, which hang open; waiting.

“You know, some people around here are kind of… worried. About you. Not me. I mean I’m not the one doing the worrying. Or the one being worried about, actually. But Pepper worries, you know she’s a worrier. You should’ve seen her trying to change this thing.” Tony taps the glow on his chest.

“Anyways, you know your place here is almost finished, and it’s actually going to be really nice because you and Pepper approved the designs. Plus, we’re going to have this common floor and the kitchen is going to be ah-mazing. Bruce is getting this special tea-making thing and I’ve got the world’s only Stark coffee maker. So, come by. Sometime.”

Tony radiates nervous energy when he stops talking. He fiddles with a metal-looking tool that he mindlessly picked up during his speech to wave around.

“Actually, Tony,” Steve says, “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

“Oh, good. Yes, ask me questions. Do you want me to show you how to make a Twitter?”

Steve ignores the suggestion. “You’ve mentioned before that Howard spoke about me.”

The tool clangs against the table. Tony rolls his eyes. “That. Might be the understatement of the century.”

Sure, whatever. “Did he ever talk about anyone else from the war?”

Tony leans against the table and crosses his arms. “Like Peggy?”

“No. Well, I meant more, the other Howling Commandos.”

“Sure, Dad talked about you guys all the time. Mostly you, mostly preceded by all kinds of adjectives that I will absolutely not flatter you with now, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

Steve puts up a hand to stop him. “No, I don’t want that. I–…Listen, did Howard ever talk about James Barnes?”

“You mean Bucky? Fell off a train, also from Brooklyn, that James Barnes?” Something in Steve must visibly falter because Tony immediately recoils from his own comment. He turns, fiddling with his mess on the table. “Woah. Okay, Tony, not cool.” He turns back to face Steve. “I’m not really good at this. Do you want a foundation in his name? Cause I can get it, I could make a call tomorrow. Or, a scholarship! MIT’ll eat that right up. The board owes me a favor, it’s–”

“Tony,” Steve says, and it accidentally comes out in the Captain America voice. The part of him that is Steve Rogers from Brooklyn shies away from Tony’s assaulting honesty. The other part, who was born on European battlefields and who famously killed a warehouse full of Nazis the day after losing his best friend, steps up. “I want to know if Howard ever found the body.”

“Oh. No, he didn’t. Do you want…? I don’t know if there’ll be anything left. But I have drones. I’ve already got some ice resistant stuff I could modify.”

Steve nods, just once. “Yes. I’d like that.”

“Cool,” Tony says, bright. “Yeah, you got it. I’ll just…no problem!”

“Thank you, Tony,” he says. God, he hopes this isn’t the wrong move.

Tony shoos him off. “You keep distracting me, and you’re not gonna be able to move in until Christmas. Go on. Find your shield buddy.”

At first, Steve thinks he means Bucky, but it’s an odd thing to say considering Steve has just asked him to look for Buck. On a whim, Steve stops and asks, “Shield buddy?”

“Yeah, what’s his face.” Tony waves a hand. “Rumlow.”

SHIELD buddy. That is not what Steve was expecting.

“Rumlow?” He hasn’t had more than a few business conversations with Rumlow. Sometimes, they run into each other in the elevator or hallway when Steve comes to visit Pepper and Tony.

“Yeah, aren’t you guys buddies or something? Heard it through the grapevine.”

Steve makes a decision. “Say, Tony. Could I borrow a car for a few weeks?”

  
  


The next morning, he comes back to pick up a gunmetal gray Jeep Wrangler. In her sharp blazer, Pepper gives Steve a hug and lingers in the garage with him, even though she’s got some media people or HR heads or someone like that upstairs.

He doesn’t say goodbye to Tony. Not because he doesn’t want to; it just doesn’t happen that way.

Steve takes the Jeep back to the apartment SHIELD gave him and throws a duffle bag together. The shield fits on the floor in front of the passenger seat, which he brings forward all the way to keep it from rattling around when he breaks. Steve takes the note and the picture of Bucky and tucks them into his shirt pocket, safe.

He had planned on waiting until the next morning to leave, but what’s the point?

Steve starts driving west.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings at the end

Steve’s about three and a half hours west of the Jersey/Pennsylvania border when he starts seeing signs for a Flight 93 National Memorial. He does not know what that means, but he starts following the signs anyways.

It takes him through hills of rolling grass; more green than he saw in his first two decades of life. The signs end at a little pull off about 30 minutes from the main highway. Steve stops in the empty parking lot and goes to wander.

There’s a small, bare plaza overlooking a grassy field, which is circled by a walking path. The path leads to a strange tower; white and marred with holes; sticking straight from the ground in the middle of nowhere Pennsylvania.

In the plaza, he goes to read the museum-style plaques.

While Steve was in the ice, two twin towers went up over Manhattan and then they fell right back to the Earth. This part, he knew. But there was a fourth plane that they didn’t tell him about, where the people inside clawed their way into the cockpit. Even though they didn’t have any weapons and they probably didn’t have much experience, that didn’t do much to stop them.

And they must have tried to land it – probably harder than Steve ever tried. Anyways, their plane crashed here, in the middle of nowhere Pennsylvania. They stayed dead.

  
  


Steve spends the night in a rundown motel about 45 minutes from the field. It’s a one-stoplight town with miles between the houses. He watches the sun come up and when the sky turns to blue, it seems to go on forever.

From there, he ends up in Chicago, where it rains and rains. Steve takes advantage of being forced inside and spends the day wandering around an indoor market, snacking on kimchi and sipping a locally brewed beer. He gets a hot dog and lets the middle aged man behind the cart pile whatever he wants on it.

On his first night in a Lincoln Park motel, Steve gets out of the shower to find some messages from Tony.

 _About the Barnes thing…_ , the first text says. Tony always starts out his messages so damn cryptically. _I dug up the reports from the Zola train mission. Dugan guessed that Barnes probably fell into the Danube around the part I circled in the pic. But I guess he didn’t actually see it happen?_

Tony breaks up his texts in ways Steve can’t understand. The third and final one reads: _Do u wanna give a better guess or should we go with that??_

He’s attached a picture, too. It’s a satellite image of the Austrian Alps, which is damn near impossible to see on a tiny phone screen with the glare from the cheap lamp. Steve wanders towards a darker corner of the room. A poorly drawn red oval outlines a section of the ravine.

Truth be told, Steve couldn’t give an accurate recollection of that mission if his life depended on it.

 _Go with that_ , he responds.

Tony sends back a thumbs up.

  
  


In Iowa and Nebraska, the land flattens out and the speed limits go up. Steve keeps an eye out for signs that warn of aircraft-enforced speed limits; he’s not really sure if that’s an empty threat, but he doesn’t want to risk hundreds of dollars on the chance his Avengers ID might get him off with a warning.

The Midwest summer air is thick and muggy, and the nighttime brings out masses of mosquitos that even the serum can’t protect Steve from. It’s worth it though, for the endless swaths of stars. Out in the fields, fireflies blink in dotted lines; frogs click and hum in muddy ponds that must be out there, somewhere close, hidden in the thick grass.

Steve’s never driven in mountains before, so he keeps out of the fast lane when he reaches Western Colorado. It’s been a few weeks since he left New York and at least ten days since he encountered so much as a hill.

He stays a few nights in Aspen, high up in the clouds where he can take daily walks down to a little stream.

In the off-season, only a skeletal crew remains in the local shops and taverns. The usual bartender is a 30-something with a gruff voice and a trimmed beard. His eyes are as green as the Pennsylvania field, sparkling with amusement under the dim overhead lights.

One night, he offers to walk Steve back to his room. Steve lets him, and then he lets him unbutton his shirt and get on his knees. Steve’s done this before but not _like this_ ; not where he could check the lock only once and undress an unfamiliar body.

The man offers to leave when they’ve finished, but Steve lets him stay. The next morning, Steve kisses him goodbye and packs up his bike.

  
  


After he gets out of the Rockies, the horizon turns into baked red rocks. He drives past the exits for the Grand Canyon.

During the coldest Brooklyn winters, Buck would go on and on about the Grand Canyon. He read about it when they were kids; Steve only remembers because Bucky must have showed him that same picture of the canyon about a thousand times over before they hit their teens. It’s not like he could just search up more information on the internet, so he looked at that one picture until the page edges started to fray.

 _You know there’s a town down in there_ , child Bucky says in his head. _Did I tell you about all the caves in there, Stevie?_

So, he drives past the Grand Canyon. Steve’s glad when the exit signs go away and stop grudging up things that leave him driving on autopilot, decades away.

  
  


On a half tank, Steve sees a sign notifying traffic that the next gas station is the last for a while. He pulls over there, even though the prices are outrageous. Steve hands a few wadded bills to the guy behind the counter and grabs himself a candy bar. By the time he gets back to the Jeep to unwrap it, the chocolate is already melting under his fingertips.

Heat simmers off the highway. Steve licks his fingers clean, probably getting a bit of the dusty orange dirt that sweeps across the few parking spaces when a gust of wind hits.

When Steve replaces the gas nozzle – searing his palm on the handle – his phone makes a sound from the car’s cupholder. He leans inside and fishes it out.

Tony: _Hey Cap got something for you give me a call_

There’s no telling when it came through; Steve’s been without steady service for days. He’s only got one bar. He calls Tony anyways.

The connection crackles but he can hear Tony’s voice. “Cap! Long time no–…–you tol–…–ber, right?”

Steve wanders around to the back of the gas station until he gets a few consecutive words out of Tony. His phone displays: two bars. Steve asks him to repeat himself.

“I _said_ ,” Tony says, annoyed. “You remember that super gruesome mission you gave me instead of going to therapy like a normal person. Right. Well I found something.”

Steve sinks. This wasn’t supposed to happen. This isn’t the way the story goes.

“You found him?”

“Y– Well, kind of. I found, you could say…a piece. An arm, to be exact.”

An arm. Steve feels unsteady in the blistering sun. He tries to listen as Tony keeps talking. “I guess the guys I’ve got over there – the ones who tuck the drones into their charging stations at night – found it about a week ago. They didn’t tell me anything ‘cause they expected to find the rest within a few days and just be able to hand over….you know, Cap, the whole thing. But they haven’t yet, so the arm’s all we got.”

“And you’re sure it’s him?”

“DNA tests don’t lie.” He pauses. “It’s just they’re kind of… Well, they did all the calculations for where his body should be, based on where they found the arm. And they haven’t found anything else yet.”

It sounds final. “What are you saying, Tony?”

“Nothing!”

“So, they’re going to keep looking,” Steve says. Not a question.

“Yeah!” Tony crows. “Duh. Yeah. They’re just…exploring other alternatives, that’s all.”

“What other alternatives?”

“Well. That maybe, he might’ve…you know…”

Steve does not know, and he tells Tony so.

“Fuck, okay. Um…maybe he lost the arm in the fall and woke up. After. He might have, you know. Tried to…Jesus, you know, this isn’t easy for me either. I grew up listening to stories about this guy. He might’ve tried to find shelter, okay? There. I said it. Now, even I know that this is really fucked, Cap, so you should just cut out this sadness road trip and talk to someone. And this is me saying this, so you know it’s really bad.”

“Just tell me when you have something new,” he grits out. Hangs up, then feels bad about it because Tony hasn’t done anything to deserve his shortness.

Steve goes back to the Jeep, turns on the AC, and watches the red rocked horizon for a long time.

  
  


Los Angeles is hazy and slow; the sunsets stretch, clouding the skyline, and the locals drag out their words. The traffic crawls. With the sun gone over the ocean, ten-lane highways turn into long, winding snakes of headlights. Steve knows he could text Tony or Pepper and ask to stay at their Malibu mansion, but it doesn’t feel right. He prefers the gum stained streets of Mid-City to anything the hills could offer.

After a few nights at a drive-in off San Vicente, Steve spends two days barefoot in a sandy Venice hostel. He eats the best burrito he’s ever had in a little place where the sweet, curly haired waitress doesn’t understand a word he says. Bright yellow paint peels from the brick walls and a crooning, Spanish song drones out the whir of the fans.

The locals here hold the same indifference towards Steve as New Yorkers do. A blonde UCLA student challenges him to a climbing race on the rope structures jutting from the Santa Monica sand. When Steve promptly beats him, he drops from his rope and collapses dramatically back onto the beach, laughing; more carefree than Steve thinks he ever was.

His buddy runs over to kick sand into his lap. “He didn’t even have any chalk, man!”

That night, Steve meanders down the gnarled wooden Santa Monica Pier – California’s Coney Island. It’s got an amusement park overlooking the ocean. Had he and Bucky been born on the opposite coast, they might have spent their nickels here.

Three fishermen with their lines dropped off the end of the pier wrangle Steve into buying them hot dogs with the money they hand over. In exchange, one of the men offers him a fish, but he wouldn’t know what to do with even if he had a full kitchen, so he waves them off and goes to buy the food.

On his way back down the pier – now with four hot dogs in a curled paper bag – Steve gets the distinct feeling that he’s being watched. Not by curious tourists, but by something deliberate; somebody who didn’t come here for the Ferris wheel or the ocean.

He ducks into one of nondescript knick-knack shops, pretends he’s interested in a black sweatshirt with vibrant, rainbow letters proclaiming, “SANTA MONICA.”

Steve glances out the store windows to the crowd outside, but it’s a mess of families and teenagers on dates. He circles the place, thoughtfully examining the rows of snow globes; there’s no way it’s ever snowed here.

Nobody who enters the store seems to have ulterior motives. It’s all business as usual outside.

Steve heads back out into the flood of meandering tourists, sparing a glance in both directions, like he’s getting his bearings.

To his left, back towards solid land, a man in a black t-shirt and dark glasses is leaning casually against the wooden railing and staring down the pier. His hair is covered by a baseball hat and he’s got a hand on his belt. Definitely military or ex-military. The amusement rides throw flashing lights onto his jaw, casting green and red shadows.

The way he’s watching the crowd makes Steve hold himself tighter. He wouldn’t be the first in this town to wear sunglasses at night, but.

Steve turns and walks with purpose back towards the waiting fishermen. His shield is tucked away under the floor of the Jeep, which is parked in that $20 lot down the boardwalk. Might as well have left it in New York.

The fishermen are staked out on the very tip of the pier, which sits a flight of stairs below the rest of it. It’s quieter down here; better for fishing, they assure him. Steve trots down the stairs, gripping his bag.

“You get them, mijo?”

Steve makes his face smile. “Yeah, got ‘em.” One by one, he takes the wrapped hot dogs out of the bag, handing them out.

“I start to think you run off,” the man teases.

“Sit. Eat,” another orders, waving a tanned hand towards the crate Steve was sitting on before. But he doesn’t want the darkened staircase at his back. Steve sits sideways on the crate, hopefully making it look casual enough.

The men chatter to each other in Spanish.

A wave of distant screams wafts from the park rides.

Steve gets that cold, itching feeling again. He turns around. The same man from before is standing on the balcony above them, arms crossed on the railing. Sunglass-covered eyes out towards the ocean. He smirks, like a hunter.

Steve gets up so fast the crate scrapes against the knotted wood of the pier, and he takes the steps two at a time. His fishermen friends call after him as the man calmly turns and walks away from the edge.

Steve reaches the top and just catches the top of the man’s cap dipping into the crowd.

“Hey!” He calls out, breaking into a jog. The man sidesteps a few teenagers, picking up his pace.

A group of onlookers are blocking the walkway to watch a street performer. Steve budges into the thick of it and runs straight across the performer’s mat, getting an earful from the guy.

The man ducks into the amusement park. Steve gives chase, barely dodging a woman with a stroller. He ducks under an awning where they’re serving carnival food and–

Steve’s shin slams into a bright red picnic bench. He catches himself just before faceplanting into the cheap table.

When he looks up, the man has slipped into the throngs of people. Steve does a lap around a spinning shark ride, then ducks under a rope that he’s supposed to have a ticket to access. Racing over to the railing, Steve peers into the ocean, black and rippling beneath them.

In front of a glitzy carnival game, a boy rears back with a mallet. A dizzying smattering of lights dance across the heads in the crowd. The ever-present shrieks circle them on the lifted roller coaster tracks.

It’s any other night on the pier.

Steve makes a beeline for the beach and jogs down the boardwalk in the dark. Flip flops? _Leaving your shield in the car?_ , Bucky’s voice says. _What the hell were you thinking?_

Indeed, he was not thinking. This is what he is, without Bucky; nothing but a drawstring bag on his back, on a sand-slippery boardwalk in Los fucking Angeles.

Steve jogs the last hundred yards to his Jeep. Ripping open the back door, he yanks the floor up. Please, please…

The shield is there; just where he left it.

The game’s up, though. Steve leans it against the passenger seat, which is practically brushing the glove compartment. As he’s starting the car up, he dials Natasha Romanoff. She picks up on the second ring.

“Is SHIELD having me followed?” He demands, peeling out of the sandy parking lot into a small break in the stream of cars.

“Not to my knowledge,” Natasha says calmly.

Steve honks at a Volvo that decides to stop in the right lane to let someone out. “Did you know it when they were bugging my apartment?”

“Are you okay?” She asks. “Where are you?”

“Los Angeles,” he says distractedly, forcing his way into the moving left lane. He swings around the stopped car and takes a right towards the highway. Steve’s going to have to mail in the money he owes for last night’s stay.

“Los Angeles? California?”

“Is there another Los Angeles?” Steve asks, annoyed.

It’s nearly 9pm on a Tuesday night and highway 10 is a damn parking lot. At least they’ll never find him here, lost in a sea of commuters. He’s just another set of brake lights.

“I just didn’t take you for a California kind of guy,” Natasha explains.

Steve’s not really interested in having this conversation anymore, now that it’s clear she either doesn’t know anything or isn’t going to share anything with him. Really, why did he think that she would?

“Look, if someone’s really following you and you want back-up, give Tony a call. I think he’s in California.”

“Never mind, Romanoff.” Steve hangs up.

In a sharp reversal of his way out here – taking detours and bumbling along – Steve goes straight back to New York, only stopping when it’s absolutely necessary. Thanks to his diminished need for sleep, he makes it back in record time.

In the home stretch of highway 80, Steve calls Tony – who _is_ in California – to confirm that the Avengers’ floors are finished. When Tony says that they are, Steve goes there. The SHIELD apartment makes him squirm. He can’t imagine how he ever closed his eyes and fell asleep there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: some talk of 9/11 and a brief Steve/OC one night stand
> 
> …
> 
> As an LA native, it damn near took a year off my life to type out “highway 10.” In the wise words of my sister/occasional beta: “do you mean the 10?”


	4. Chapter 4

Bruce is the only other Avenger in the Tower when Steve moves in. He helps Steve move boxes, even though Steve really could’ve done it all himself. They orbit around each other, sitting down for the occasional meal together.

He gives Steve restaurant recommendations and since he’s travelled all around the world, he knows his stuff. When Bruce doesn’t feel like leaving the Tower, Steve will go pick their food up on his bike. More often, he teaches Steve new recipes from countries that didn’t even exist when Steve was growing up.

Steve’s never had a roommate besides Bucky, but Bruce is a good one.

Even though Pepper and Tony don’t return from California, Pepper texts him often. Usually, it’s different charities and events that Steve could get involved in. They’re all interesting, but Steve just…doesn’t do anything about them.

In his dreams, he catches up to the man on the Santa Monica pier and spins him around and it’s Bucky; the flittering colored lights dance across his face and he smiles, brighter than anything Los Angeles could ever dream of being.

Steve’s real life is dulled out. Now that he’s decided to engage with Pierce and Rumlow, they’ve backed into their holes and don’t seem to want anything to do with him. Steve goes on jogs and finds a neat little bagel shop down the street from the Tower, but it doesn’t have a _purpose_. New York is alive and moving around him, while he simply exists.

It’s like he’s just waiting for tomorrow, only to do nothing until the next day comes.

One day, Tony texts him: _Can u do whatever Pepper is texting you about! She’s getting on my nerves about it and now u are getting my nerves too!_

So, Steve starts working with the VA. Actually, he just walks into a Brooklyn office one day with no real idea of what his next step will be and the event coordinator – Caroline – takes pity on him and starts giving him jobs.

Steve never came home from his war, so he didn’t have to manage the after-effects like everybody else. When he woke up, he had healthcare and housing and the option of psychiatric care just handed to him.

With the VA, Steve drives a van around New York, taking disabled vets to their appointments. After Caroline teaches him the computer system, he helps people get their healthcare plans. Nobody tries to push money on Steve for the work he does, which he’s glad for; it’s uncomfortable to keep refusing peoples’ money but he wouldn’t dream of taking a dime.

The equipment in their rec room hasn’t been updated since probably the turn of the century.

“Probably the 90s, actually,” Caroline says, when Steve brings this up to her.

So, Steve suggests, “Why don’t we update them?”

“With what money, Steve-o?” Caroline pretends like she’s going to tap Steve on the nose with her pen, but she doesn’t touch him. She returns to her stack of papers, pushing her Rosie the Riveter headband back against her curls. “We could do a fundraiser but you’re gonna have to run the thing.”

“I can do that.”

Caroline looks at him like she’s not entirely sure he can do that without running to her every few minutes. In all fairness, Steve does come running to her quite a bit.

She finishes whatever she’s writing and goes to staple a few papers together. “I’ll let you do it, but you’re gonna have a babysitter.”

“What? Why?”

“Steve, when I told you about our Kiss a Pig fundraiser, you asked me how I got NYPD to agree to that.”

“I just misunderstood you!”

She stares at him, so Steve tries: “We could have a bake sale.”

Caroline slips her packet into a folder. “Alright, no babysitter, but you’ll have a fundraising partner.”

“Aw, Caroline,” Steve groans.

“You’re gonna like this guy!”

“And if I don’t like him?” Steve asks, but she doesn’t dignify him with a response.

It turns out: Steve does like him. Sam From DC is warm and open, and he can razz Steve just as well as he can take it. When Caroline introduces them, Sam doesn’t go wide-eyed at Captain America; he just shoves her in the arm for not giving him Steve’s last name in advance.

Steve and Sam cycle through several fundraising ideas, before eventually combining a bunch of mismatched concepts into a mess of county fair style booths. Steve finds out that Sam has been crashing on a friend’s couch when he comes to New York, which is ridiculous when Steve has an entire guest bedroom sitting empty at the Tower. After that, they’re something like part-time roommates.

October is just chilly enough for an outdoor event, so Steve convinces a local high school to let them use their field. A few of the teenaged volunteers run a face paint station for the kids. Steve gets about a million pies to his face; Caroline pays triple for hers, and she takes about triple the enjoyment out of it, too. They sell popcorn and Sam carefully swirls frosting on rows of cupcakes.

It’s such a success that Caroline agrees that Steve _might_ be ready to run the next one on his own.

The night after their fundraiser, Steve and Sam sit on the Tower’s rooftop patio, warm under the heating lamps. They sip on hot Irish coffees. In Manhattan, watching the headlights move below is the closest they’ll get to stargazing.

Their relationship so far has been alternating between teasing the hell out of each other and buckling down to prepare for their fundraiser. But that night on the rooftop, Sam gets serious. He tells Steve about his best friend, who fell out of the sky; not a thing to be done for it.

This is the part where Steve knows he’s supposed to open up about Bucky, but he just can’t. It’s been seven months and seventy years but he still can’t manage to even speak Bucky’s name out loud.

Sam probably knows, anyways. Everyone knows what happened to Bucky. They write books about the thing that twists Steve up inside and wakes him in the night.

  
  


An invitation to a White House Veterans Day breakfast appears in Steve’s mailbox and he almost throws it out – like hell does he want to stand around listening to politicians thank him for his service. As far as Steve is concerned, President Ellis is a war-mongering crook.

It’s an opportunity, though.

“Jarvis,” Steve says, “can you find out who else got one of these?”

“Unfortunately, I do not have access to White House databases,” Jarvis says regretfully. “If you have a particular guest in mind, I could scan security footage to determine if they received a similar envelope.”

“Can you see security footage in DC?”

“Yes, Captain.” Jarvis sounds a little miffed.

“Check Alexander Pierce, please.”

A little tune plays as Jarvis thinks.

“Secretary Pierce did receive a similar envelope. I can determine with 93% accuracy that he was invited to the White House Veterans Day breakfast.”

That’s a start. But even if Pierce did get an invite, no telling if he’ll go.

Steve sends in his RSVP anyways.

As the event draws closer, he even considers calling the White House and asking about the guest list. _Not only is that a terrible idea_ , Bucky’s voice says, _it wouldn’t even work. What are you gonna say, ‘hello, White House, it’s Captain America and I need to know who you invited to this party and it’s an emergency.’_

So, Steve waits for the day of the event like a normal person. He gets all dressed up in a suit and drives to DC with plenty of time to spare. It’s awfully strange to park his car – or, the Jeep he hasn’t really returned to Tony – at _the White House_ , of all places. Steve walks inside, gaping at the walls like a little kid.

The intern who shows a group of them to the right place also rambles about the room they’re about to enter, but he’s not listening.

Truthfully, he’s not as red-blooded patriotic as the media makes him out to be, but he’d have to be all kinds of dead inside to not recognize the hallowed halls. Abraham Lincoln could’ve sat on that couch; Teddy Roosevelt probably stood just over there. Steve feels incredibly out of place.

Once they are guided to their seats, Steve’s focus buckles down. He takes a polite sip of water, introducing himself to the people at his left and right – a young woman in a wheelchair and a middle aged man that probably doesn’t often wear his hair as slicked back as it is.

“Did you guys feel a little weird walking in here?” She asks. When they both nod enthusiastically, she laughs nervously. “Glad I wasn’t the only one.”

Then, the three of them bond a little over how they feel like sore thumbs.

As Steve turns back and forth between them, he gets to peek over their heads and around their shoulders. Most of the room finishes their breakfast quickly and starts mingling, so Steve finds breaks in the conversation to get some of the food off his plate and into his mouth. When he’s finished an acceptable portion, he excuses himself.

Steve shakes hands and give people a shiny smile. He keeps his exchanges brief because this event isn’t all that long and he’s got things to do.

Twenty three minutes before the end of the event – not that Steve’s been keeping a countdown – he sees him; a navy blue suit, graying blonde hair, coffee in one hand. Steve waits for a break, then disentangles himself from his current conversation.

“Captain Rogers,” Pierce says, extending his hand.

Steve shakes it. “Secretary Pierce.”

“It’s good to see you here. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“I took some personal time.”

Perfunctory, Pierce says, “Probably for the best. This all must have been quite the adjustment.”

Steve doesn’t know what that is supposed to mean, but he agrees.

Pierce takes a gulp from his coffee mug, then swirls the empty mug demonstrably. “We’ll be in touch, Captain,” he says.

He slips away.

  
  


The Avengers’ Christmas party takes place the Saturday before Christmas. It’s supposed to start at 8pm, but Tony invites Steve to dinner beforehand. When Steve tries to get off, saying he’s cleaning out his SHIELD apartment, Tony sends a car at 6:30. Steve really would’ve rather taken his bike, even though the wind would have messed with his hair and Pepper probably would have stopped what she was doing to try to help him fix it; and Steve doesn’t want that.

He’s ready a full ten minutes before the car is supposed to arrive. He spends the time agonizing over whether or not he should wear a tie.

When Steve gets the text from Jarvis saying the driver is downstairs, he’s still got the tie in his hand. So, it stays off. He doesn’t want to make the driver wait.

The car takes him through the secret alleyway entrance that Steve honestly cannot believe the press hasn’t discovered yet; maybe the best way to keep a secret is to leave it out in the open.

He takes the elevator to the common floor; it’s split level, actually, but the top part has the kitchen and dining room. Though Steve didn’t ask, he realizes he’d assumed it was a team dinner when he walks into the kitchen and finds Tony. Just Tony.

“Oh. Hi,” Tony says. A pot of something is bubbling in front of him. “Does this look done to you? Pepper told me to turn it off when it’s done. How am I supposed to know when pasta is done?”

Steve walks over and peers inside. Long, flat-ish noodles in boiling water. Taking the spoon from Tony’s hand, Steve fishes one flimsy noodle out. It’s too hot to touch, but he plucks it up anyways and throws it at the immaculate kitchen cupboards. It sticks.

“What are you doing!?”

“It’s done,” Steve decides. “If they stick, then they’re done.”

Tony seems a little suspicious, like Steve is doing voodoo or something. But he turns off the burner on his sleek, flat grill.

Steve wants to know where the others are – Were they invited? Did they turn Tony down? – but he doesn’t ask; and it’s not because of the note or any plan. If they all blew off Tony’s invitation, then it would embarrass him if Steve brought it up. On the other hand, if Steve was the only one Tony invited, then he certainly wouldn’t want it pointed out.

Pepper glides into the kitchen with her hair and face all done up, wearing a t-shirt and leggings. She greets Steve with a hug and gives Tony a quick kiss.

They don’t act particularly couple-y in front of him, maybe because they don’t want him to feel like a third wheel. Or, maybe that’s just how they are. Steve wouldn’t know how couples are supposed to act in front of their friends; the love of his life was illegal.

Pepper shoos them away to set the table and get the bread from the oven while she finishes the pasta; “It’s white truffle tagliolini,” she says. Tony throws a rolled cloth napkin at Steve’s head, then snatches it back with hasty promises to roll it back up if Steve keeps quiet. It turns out lumpy and crooked, so Steve takes pity on him and rolls it back up properly.

They get the bread before it gets too crispy. Whatever Pepper did with the pasta is absolutely delicious; Steve tells her so, and then tells her again.

It’s approaching 8pm before he knows it.

After dinner, Steve insists on doing the dishes and Pepper shoves Tony to his side to dry them. She disappears into the Tower to get ready.

Tony is terrible at drying, getting distracted and talking with his hands until Steve piles the dripping dishes in front of him.

“2013,” Tony is saying. “2013! Didn’t 2012 just start? God, I sound like my father. What a nightmare. It must be even crazier for you, huh old man?”

“Mmhm,” Steve agrees. It reminds him... “Hey, Tony?”

Tony has to cut himself off mid-monologue. “What?”

“Anything from the Alps?”

“Oh. Nah,” Tony says, suddenly attending to the wet dishes he’s let pile up. “My drones are still scanning the area. They’re ice resistant, you know. Up to negative a hundred twenty. They can detect…uh. Natural materials. Even buried in the snow. I’ve got a charging station set up for them over there. Isn’t it great when an Austrian Vice Chancellor owes you a favor?”

“Sounds like it.”

Tony takes the last plate as soon as Steve’s finished with it. Putting it into the cupboard by his head, he shrugs. “Well, they’ll have to find something eventually. How far could he have gone, right?”

Steve doesn’t answer.

  
  


Just like Steve assumed that the dinner would be a team-wide thing, he thought the party would probably have half the city in attendance. In reality, it’s just his fellow Avengers and some Tower regulars that Steve at least recognizes. No Rumlow or STRIKE. Thank God.

Clint drags their dining table into the living room and sets up a game; each side has a triangle of cups and you have to throw a ball into the other side’s cups to win. Of course, Clint’s team wins every time. He keeps taking sips from his drink anyways. Some of the others claim it’s a childish game, but it’s actually pretty fun. For his enthusiasm, Clint makes Steve his permanent teammate.

As things wind down, they sit with Natasha in front of a crackling fireplace. For the first time, Steve can look at his teammates and see something other than spies.

Clint’s in the kitchen getting more wine when Natasha – out of the blue – says, “Were you really born on the 4th of July?”

Steve chuckles. “Yeah. Yeah, I was.”

“No party for your 94th though, huh? Or was I just not American enough to be invited.” Natasha was MIA nearly the entire summer, so it’s meaningless teasing.

“27th,” Steve corrects. She gives him a look. “I was born in 1918. Crashed the plane before my birthday in ’45, then I woke up here.”

Natasha tips her head. “Hm,” she says. “We’re the same age.”

“Really?”

“Sure. I was born in 1984. I never knew my birthday, so I decided it was New Year’s Eve. I’ll be 28 in about a week.”

“Why New Year’s Eve?”

Natasha shrugs a shoulder. “Clint chose it, but I like having it on a holiday. It feels like the whole world is celebrating your birthday.”

Steve remembers muggy summer nights; red, white, and blue popsicles; eleven year old Bucky sticking out his stained tongue. “Yeah,” he agrees.

“Do you know about the 27 club?”

Steve doesn’t.

The way Natasha leans in to explain, it feels like a ghost story. “Since the 70s, there’s been a growing group of celebrities – rock stars, mostly – that all died at the age of 27. They say that many of them were found with white lighters in their pockets.”

“What killed them?”

“Overdoses, I think.” Natasha takes a sip of her drink, then raises her eyebrows. “Or, so they say.”

“So, I shouldn’t drink too much of this, is what you’re saying.”

“You shouldn’t carry around any white lighters, is what I’m saying.”

“Hey, neither should you. You’ve still got a week to go.”

Natasha smiles, and it seems more genuine than she’s shown him before. “Cheers to surviving 27?” She offers her glass out to him.

Their glasses clink.

  
  


The extravagant party Steve expected for Christmas takes place on New Year’s. Several of the Tower’s lower floors are filled with people in clothes more expensive than Steve’s entire life. He can only take so many pictures and after a few too many “jokes” about various guests being his New Year’s kiss, Steve escapes to the rooftop.

Thick, heavy snowflakes flutter down, blanketing the streets below them. The dull roar of the Times Square crowd echoes through the city blocks. Steve watches as a little group of 20-somethings stumble through the thin layer of slushy snow, draped in flashy accessories; one of them trips on a curb and stumbles and is caught by their friend. The tiny figure throws their head back in a laugh that doesn’t reach Steve, up in the rafters of the city.

“You’re not gonna get a New Year’s kiss up here.” He turns around.

Natasha is standing under the safety of the awning with a clear drink in each hand. She holds one out towards him, like a toast. “Come get this. I’m not walking it over there in heels.”

Obediently, Steve crosses the patio and takes the drink from Natasha’s hand. She balances on his unencumbered arm as he walks with her to the edge. When she shivers, he slips his jacket off and over her shoulders, mumbling about the serum and his increased internal body temperature.

“What are you doing up here?” Natasha asks, point blank.

“Just watching the city.”

A cheer rises up from crowd, blocks away. Natasha takes a sip of her drink. “It’s almost midnight,” she comments.

“Yeah. You should go back downstairs.”

She doesn’t say anything, just watches him in a way that makes Steve want to squirm. It’s like she sees right down to the center of what he is. To his last New Year’s Eve kiss, a quick little thing followed by Bucky smirking and teasing, like that would make it less queer; it was an hour and a half after midnight in London’s bombed out shell.

“Nobody special yet, huh?”

Steve scoffs. “Believe it or not, it’s kind of hard to find someone with shared life experience.”

“That’s alright, just make something up.”

“What, like you?”

Natasha shrugs. “The truth is a matter of circumstances. It's not all things to all people all the time, and neither am I.”

“That's a tough way to live.”

“Yeah,” she muses. “It's a good way not to die, though.”

He looks at her. “It’s awfully hard to trust someone when you don't know who that someone really is.”

Leaning against the railing, backlit by the city, she says, “Well, who do you want me to be?”

“How about a friend?”

She pushes off the wall and returns to his side, amused. Stays quiet, even though she looks like she wants to say something; she thinks him naïve, maybe.

Vague, collective shouts from Times Square become a rhythmic countdown, and then bursts of flaming orange and red surge overtop the Flatiron Building.

Natasha tugs on the sleeve of his dress shirt, gets up on her toes, and kisses his cheek when he bends his knees for her. Looking at him, she grins, presumably at his now-lipstick-kissed face.

“Happy New Year, Steve,” Natasha says. The glittery makeup in the corners of her eyes looks especially bright as fireworks start to rocket up and explode over the city.

She’s stunning in a timeless way. Put a curl in her hair and transport the two of them down to street level like normal people, and they could be ringing in 1939. Except, except, except.

The New York, New York song drifts in an echo down the freezing streets, accompanied by thousands of blurred voices. Cocooned 93 stories up, Steve and Natasha stand in the glow as wisps of confetti start to leak out of the radiating ember that is Times Square.

“Happy birthday, Nat,” he says.

  
  


A few weeks into 2013, Tony goes on television and tells a wanted terrorist his home address. For a while, everyone except the Avengers think him dead; but he turns up.

Since Tony arrested the President and his VP, the Speaker of the House – a young, charismatic man from Chicago’s South Side – takes office. He inherits a mess.

Seemingly overnight, Tony sets up a charity event for the Mandarin attacks in California. It’s at the Tower and Tony and Pepper are in town, but they don’t come downstairs, leaving Rhodes to run the thing. Steve and Clint go, because Rhodes asked very nicely and they’re easier to guilt than Natasha.

Clint, however, skips out early; leaving Steve to mingle with the suits.

Steve is taking an excessively long time to “get another drink” when someone claps a cold hand on his shoulder. He turns. Brock Rumlow is smiling at him, teeth bared.

“Whatcha drinking, Cap?”

Steve looks at his glass. What was it again? “It’s whisky.”

Rumlow slides onto the stool beside him. They’re at the quiet end of the bar, Steve shielded from the event by Rumlow’s turned shoulders. He orders himself a scotch, and then they duck through the crowd until Rumlow finds a spot that’s apparently suitable.

They become just another cluster of heads in the mix of the masses.

“I gotta give you credit,” Rumlow says, “staying in a place like this.”

Steve agrees. “It can be a bit much sometimes, but it’s alright.”

“You caused quite the upset ‘round here.”

“Did I?”

“What did you expect?” Rumlow saves Steve having to try to cobble together some answer that makes sense. He loves to hear himself talk. “Don’t worry, Pierce’ll get over it.”

“You sound sure about that.”

“I am. Look, you gotta understand, we didn’t see this coming. You certainly…” He laughs, thoroughly enjoying himself. “Well, if you were in his spot, I’m sure you’d be a little threatened, too. He worked his ass off to get here. You can respect that, I’m sure.”

So, Pierce thinks Steve is swooping in to…take his job? Or, at least that’s what he told Rumlow. Concerns over job security don’t usually lead to having someone followed clear across the country.

“I can,” Steve says, crisp. “He’s not the only one who worked to get here.”

Rumlow stands a little straighter. “Of course.”

Speak of the devil; Pierce catches Steve’s eye over Rumlow’s shoulder. Weaving gracefully through the bunches of suits and flowing dresses, he comes to shake his hand.

“Gentlemen,” Pierce greets, smooth and sure.

Steve and Rumlow parrot back their little niceties. Good to see you, Sir; yes, what an event; can you believe, about Stark?

Steve may completely out of his depth when it comes to the subtext of whatever the hell is going on here, but the personal dynamics present themselves, clear as anything. Pierce has come to check up on his underlings. To get away and have a chat with a few allies. They treat him like the three of them all arrived together; like _this_ is the comfortable retreat from the draining drag of non-stop socializing this sort of event requires.

Eventually, Pierce nods at Rumlow, who shakes Pierce’s hand and leans in to whisper something into his ear. Or. Has Steve read this all wrong? Are they onto him?

He turns to Steve and offers his hand. Ready to smash his glass over Rumlow’s head if he tries anything, Steve takes it. Then, Rumlow leans in close to him, too; whispers, “Heil Hydra.”

It happens so quick. He straightens up, releases his hand.

In Steve’s war, the Nazis were proud and bold. They wore their allegiance on their sleeves. But these 21st century Nazis blend in. Put Rumlow in an office cubicle, in line at Starbucks; you couldn’t tell the difference.

The way Rumlow slinks away reminds Steve of a circling tiger. He’s got his fingers in the pie, but he’s no king.

“Everything alright, Captain?” Pierce asks. Oh fuck, was he supposed to say it back?

“Yes. I just– We weren’t so…open. In my time.” What a dumb thing to say; they literally wore swastikas in the 40s. But maybe, if he was an undercover Nazi, maybe–

“Well, we’ve come a long way,” Pierce charms. Oh, thank God.

“So, it seems.”

“You know, Captain, we could use a man like you in DC.”<

“With all due respect, Sir, I feel much more useful here in New York.”

Pierce raises his eyebrows. “Why is that?”

This is your boss, Steve tells himself. This is your commanding officer. “Sir, being part of the Avengers is a unique opportunity. I believe my spot on the team is too valuable a position to give up.” He remembers Rumlow’s words and adds: “It seems like you’ve got DC under control.”

“The situation in DC is quite under control. I wonder if you could say the same for the Avengers.”

A challenge. Pierce’s tone takes on something else entirely when he’s bringing his men into line.

“It is, Sir, but I’d like to stay in town to keep it that way.”

Pierce nods. “Good. You’re to stay in town, then.” No more trips to Santa Monica, Steve hears.

Imitating Rumlow, Steve grips Pierce’s hand and leans in. He smells like metal. “Heil Hydra,” Steve whispers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the MCU, Iron Man 3 takes place over Christmas 2012, which Tony spends in LA. However, this version of Tony has had more opportunity to bond w/Steve and by extension, the Avengers as a team. So, he went back to NY for Christmas, thereby pushing Iron Man 3 events back a few weeks.


	5. Chapter 5

Steve can hardly go running from the charity after his conversation with Rumlow and Pierce. He forces himself through cookie-cutter conversations with a rotating itinerary of faces, quietly incensed. After he gets information on Bucky – that’s it; that’s all he needs – he’s going to tear them apart.

People shake Steve’s hand and take pictures with him, telling him names that he will not remember.

Just before Steve retreats upstairs, he makes eye contact with Pierce across the room and nods, thinking of getting his thrumming jugular beneath his fingers.

He wants to call Sam or Natasha but thinks better of it. What if they’re monitoring his phone?

Last Steve heard, Natasha was still hanging around New York, but when he goes to her floor, she’s not there. He’ll have to stay in his apartment and wait until a reasonable time. Make it look like he slept.

Steve misses Bucky a little more than usual, like he always does when he gets in over his head. And he is in over his head, desperately so.

Riddled with a sickening combination of rage and nervous energy, he washes all the dishes left in the sink. Steve throws a load of laundry into the washer and mops the floors, then realizes he forgot to sweep before doing so.

At 11:56pm, Steve opens a message to Natasha. _Lunch tomorrow?_ Send. That’s not suspicious. He has lunch with Tony and Pepper all the time; why not her, too.

_Sure. I’m craving sushi._ There’s a little emoji of a piece of sushi. The kind with the rice ball and fish laid on top.

_Sushi it is_ , he replies. He’s going to figure out where Bucky is, then put a bullet in Rumlow’s brain and watch the life go from his eyes.

At 5:42am, Steve’s phone starts screeching, interrupting him staring at the TV screen while a show about somebody getting murdered plays.

It’s the Avengers alert tone.

They’re on a jet headed for South Carolina before the sun clears the horizon, casting the sky in a muddy rose as the early risers drift out into the Hudson. At Steve’s side, Natasha yawns into her coffee thermos. “I guess we’re not getting sushi today,” she says.

“You were going to get sushi without me?” Tony hollers.

“It’s too early for you to be so loud,” Clint yells back.

  
  


Someone has made thousands upon thousands of cat-sized robots and unleashed them on Myrtle Beach. Vaguely, Steve thinks the place bears some resemblance to Coney Island and the Santa Monica Pier. If those places were overrun by an endless stream of mildly irritating robots.

Tony sets them down on the beach, kicking up sand.

Out of the jet, Clint takes a few steps and starts complaining. “You had to put us on the beach,” he gripes. “Gonna have sand in my shoes ‘till we get back to New York.”

“Sorry, Clint!” Tony calls, soaring over them. He doesn’t sound sorry.

The robots have converged upon a multi-story department store, so Steve sets up point there while Tony goes to find the source. Clint takes position on the roof across the street, picking off robots as they come in or out. The store’s first floor is by far the worst overrun, so Natasha stays there while Steve goes up to clear the second and third.

The things can’t do any real damage, but their “faces” have lasers that leave a stinging pain. They don’t even try too hard to attack Steve, instead preferring to congregate along the edges of the building, where the floors meet the wall. Close combat is not working out, so he asks Natasha run up and lend him a gun.

“Glad you’re seeing the light,” she says before turning back for the first floor.

The gun is more efficient and after nearly twenty minutes, they get the signal from Tony that he’s taken out the source. He weaves through the streets, remarking over the comms each time he finds a robot that made it further than the one before.

With the third floor nearly cleared, Steve can start taking out their little clusters along the peripherals of the place.

They scutter along the wall, occasionally turning to blast at Steve. When he makes enough progress on them, the space left behind is riddled with holes. He can see clear down to the street below; they’ve taken out so much of the plaster.

“They’re eating away at the building,” Steve realizes.

“What?” Clint says in his ear.

The structure creaks and whines. Shit.

He feels the floor go, but not with enough time to grab onto anything. Steve tumbles through the crumbling hunks of concrete in free fall.

It’s always the dumbest missions that throw them the biggest curveballs.

Flat on his back, Steve blinks up at the smoky sky. Stands up, then wavers. He’s so dizzy he might throw up. He is supposed to go back to the jet, but he sits back down on the dusty ground because that’s easier. Hopefully, they don’t leave him behind and forget about him.

After some time, Natasha is there. She tells him to get up, so he does. She sounds a little mad. Says she can’t carry him. They need to leave.

When he has to stop and be sick, she sighs; with her sleeve, she wipes at his mouth. Gross.

Bleary eyed, Steve stumbles after Natasha. Back to the quinjet. While someone – Tony, probably – pilots them out of there, he pukes again. This time into a bucket that Clint passes over.

“Oh, yeah. You got hit good, Cap,” Clint says, holding something cold to his forehead. It drips little spots of ice water onto his pants. No, not his pants. They’ve been gashed open, exposing a bloody strip of his thigh. The water is burning him.

He wants to tell Clint and Nat this, but it takes too much effort.

Natasha says: “How much longer, Tony?” She sounds worried.

Steve’s eyes slip closed.

  
  


When he opens his eyes again, Natasha is sitting in a chair near the foot of his bed. She’s deep in a book, her feet resting on the edge of the mattress.

Steve’s throat feels like it’s on fire. There’s a mild panging in his head, but it really isn’t bad compared to past concussions he’s had. Overall, he feels fine.

“Hey,” Steve croaks.

Natasha gets him some water that he can sip through a straw.

“How long have I been out?”

“Almost two days, on and off,” Natasha says. Well, that explains why he feels ready to get up and go for a run. What the hell has he been doing, sleeping for two days? Steve usually wakes up within an hour of being knocked out. The way Natasha is watching him is giving him a strange feeling, too.

He remembers South Carolina, the Coney Island Santa Monica place. He and Natasha were supposed to go for sushi. Clint got sand in his shoes. “What happened?”

“A building collapsed with you in it,” she replies casually.

“You were in it, too,” he remembers.

“Not when it collapsed. How are you feeling?”

Steve swings his legs over the edge of the bed. “Fine, actually.”

“Don’t stand up yet, because I can’t catch you if you pass out.” She leaves in a rush and returns with a doctor.

Steve sits obediently on the mattress, answering questions and letting the doctor move his head around. When asked, he stands up and fights off a brief rush of dizziness. For his cooperation, he’s given something like an okay to leave. The doctor leaves the room with Natasha, so Steve takes the opportunity to grab some clothes from his duffle bag and lock himself in the tiny attached bathroom to change.

When he’s finished, Natasha is back in the room, staring at her phone. “I’m driving you home,” she reveals.

“That’s not necessary.”

The look she gives him shuts him right up. They’re just going down the street, but Natasha reminds him of Peggy in that sense; she has no time for nonsense; from him or anybody else.

She tucks her phone into her back pocket. “You don’t have to answer this,” she says, “but who’s Bucky?”

Steve freezes. He looks away, almost shuts down the conversation right there on instinct alone. But: _She will be one of your biggest allies._

So…

“Where did you hear that?”

“You woke up a few times, but you weren’t really here,” Natasha explains. She actually hesitates a little; she cares, he realizes then. “You were asking for him. They had to put you back under.”

Steve is not entirely surprised with himself. “You know who he is,” he tells her firmly.

There’s no way she doesn’t, American or not. Natasha isn’t the type to enter into any sort of team without thoroughly digging through the dirty pasts of each and every member, alien invasions be damned.

“I know what SHIELD has to say about James Buchanan Barnes. I want to know your side.”

Steve’s whole body feels tight. He sits down on the side of the bed, scanning the room for his shoes. “Nothing I say would do him justice.”

Natasha goes to his duffle bag in the corner of the room, fishes around, and then brings his shoes over to him. They’re plopped unceremoniously on the ground. “Try,” she insists.

He takes a breath. This shouldn’t be this difficult. This is the in that he needs, that he’s been waiting for.

Stalling, he actually unties his shoe laces before putting the shoes on.

“Bucky was the kind of person everybody wanted to be around,” Steve says, tying the laces back up. “Girls, parents, teachers; everybody could see that he was something special. He was my best friend since I was five.”

When he looks up, Natasha’s eyes are pale and wide. She didn’t expect this trust, but she goes with it. “He must’ve thought you were something special.”

“He did,” Steve swears. “Natasha, he thought it before anybody else.”

She listens, Steve can tell. Some people stop talking just long enough to hear what the other person has to say, but Natasha _listens_.

“I have something to ask you,” Steve blurts out. He stands up and brushes his hands against his thighs.

Natasha silently hands him his bag, not agreeing or refusing to answer his question. Steve slings the bag’s strap over his shoulder. As he holds the door for her, she prompts him. “Well?”

They’re walking down the hospital hallway and this doesn’t seem like the kind of thing to discuss around others. Steve starts stalling her, deflecting her increasingly impatient questions in the elevator down to the parking garage.

Natasha stands outside her driver’s door while he throws his duffle bag into her trunk. “You’re making me nervous. This better be good, Rogers.”

Steve climbs into the passenger seat, pulling the door closed behind him. It’s suddenly quiet, without the ambient noise of the public garage or the purr of a car engine. Natasha clearly isn’t going to take them anywhere until her curiosity is satisfied. The leg that should be controlling the pedals is curled up underneath her and she’s facing sideways in the seat. He turns to her in the bubble of the parked car.

“Does the name ‘the Winter Soldier’ mean anything to you?”

When he sees Natasha’s face, Steve realizes he has never seen her truly scared until this moment. “Where did you hear that?” She demands.

“You answer my question first.”

He’s hardly gets the reply out before Natasha is talking again. “No. I need to know right now. Have you seen the Winter Soldier? Because if you have, we have _serious problems_."

“I haven’t seen him,” he admits.

“Where did you hear that, then?”

Steve shrugs. He didn’t mean to turn this into an interrogation, and certainly not one where he’s the one being questioned. “This is not a joke, Rogers,” Natasha snaps. “If you’re trying to mess with me – if Clint or somebody put you up to this – it is not funny.”

So, it’s a spy thing then. Maybe a SHIELD thing.

“I’m not trying to be funny,” Steve says.

Natasha takes a breath like she hasn’t decided what to say next; what to do about him.

“Tell me where you heard about the Winter Soldier, and I’ll tell you what I know about him,” she offers.

“I asked first?” Natasha glares at him, but Steve goes on. “You tell me what you know, and I’ll tell you where I heard it.”

“Steve– Fine. As long as you promise me he’s not coming after you.”

“He’s not coming after me,” Steve swears. He extends a hand and she shakes, quick and less than thrilled.

Finally, Natasha starts the car. They’ve been sitting here in a basement parking garage having a conversation that Steve hasn’t really figured out for long enough.

She doesn’t start explaining until they’re pulling out onto the street. “The Winter Soldier is a ghost story for the intelligence community. Most people don’t believe he exists. He’s been credited with over two dozen assassinations in the last fifty years.”

All Steve hears is _in the last fifty years_. It couldn’t be anybody else. It’s Bucky; he knows it with a certainty down to the marrow of his bones. It must be Bucky. Right then, in Natasha’s passenger seat stopped at a red on Madison Avenue, there’s not even an alternative to entertain.

Natasha must take his lack of a response as disbelief. “Two years ago, I was escorting a nuclear engineer out of Iran. Somebody shot out my tires near Odessa. We lost control, went straight over a cliff. I pulled us out, but the Winter Soldier was there. I was covering my engineer, so he shot him straight through me. He’s dangerous, Steve, and going after him is a dead end. I know, I’ve tried.”

“So, you saw him? Did you get a good look at him?”

“While he was shooting at me?” She can’t believe him. “Can’t say I did.”

“But if I asked for a description?”

“Rogers, seriously–”

“Please, Nat.” Steve hasn’t called her that since New Year’s.

She signs, world weary as ever, and yanks the car into park. “He has a metal left arm. I’d say…around 6 feet, 200 pounds, dark hair.”

Bucky, Bucky, Bucky, Steve’s brain says.

When Steve waits for more, she dismisses him. “He’s a sniper, they tend to hang back. Now get out of my car and don’t say a word about this until I give you the okay.”

Swinging the door open, Natasha climbs out. “I was thinking more of that place on 7th, but if you’re still set on sushi, we could go back to Blue Ribbon.”

Dutifully, Steve replies. “Fine with me.”

For his lack of enthusiasm, he gets a hard glare from Natasha. “I would say Morimoto, but I don’t want you to have a heart attack at the bill.” How does she make her voice sound so peppy when her eyes say that she wants to strangle him.

They keep up a dialogue about dinner options while making their way upstairs.

In Steve’s apartment, Natasha has Jarvis sweep for bugs. He sounds incredibly offended, but he does it anyways and comes back with a clean report. Then, Natasha physically takes apart a bunch of Steve’s lights and electrical sockets before giving him the all-clear.

Steve leads her into his room. “Do you remember after New York, when we helped with the cleanup and then we had all those meetings?” He asks, getting the note from its little lockbox in the back of his closet.

“Of course, I remember that, Rogers.”

“Okay, well. After I went back to my apartment – the night after all the fighting – I found a note.” He holds the open box in his hands.

“A note,” she echoes flatly. Natasha thinks he’s lost it.

“Yes. And there were a bunch of…bugs, listening devices. With another note.”

“And where are these notes now? What did they say?”

Steve does not want to explain what the notes said, not when she already thinks he’s losing the plot. So, he hands her the larger one – the one he thinks of as The Note – and then the Post-it that came with the bugs.

As Natasha reads, her face doesn’t change once. It’s like he handed her the morning paper.

“Well?” He prompts.

“Steve, this is your handwriting.”

“But I didn’t write it, Natasha.”

She looks at him. Oh, God, she thinks he’s crazy. He tells her so.

“I don’t. Grief does weird things to people. I’m speaking from experience.” Natasha holds both notes out to him, but Steve doesn’t take them.

“No,” he insists. “No, Nat. How would I have written this, when I was fighting aliens with you guys all day? How would I have found these things? I don’t even know where to look. If you told me to look for bugs in here, right now, I wouldn’t know where to begin. And the–…the Winter Soldier. Ask yourself: how would I know about that? How? Tell me!”

He shouldn’t be yelling at her, but he is. A little.

Natasha admits, “I can’t explain how.”

“There’s a reason I’m telling you this now. When I was at that charity for the Mandarin attacks last week, Rumlow and Pierce were there. I spoke to them. Natasha, Rumlow said, ‘heil Hydra’ to me. He said those words. And Pierce told me to keep the Avengers under control and just about ordered me to stay in New York.”

She looks pale, young. Jesus, they’re not even thirty yet.

“You’re sure?” She asks.

“I swear on it.”

Carefully, Natasha says, “Okay. If that’s true, then I need you to stay rational. This still doesn’t mean that it’s Barnes.”

“Bucky’s whole unit was captured in ’43. Zola experimented on him. Whatever he did could’ve helped Bucky survive the fall. Hydra could have found him.”

It’s so awful, Steve has never said it out loud until now. If he thinks about Bucky in the snow for too long, he’ll splinter off and never be able to find all the pieces of himself again.

“I’m going to tell you something,” she warns. “And you are not going to repeat it.”

“Okay.”

Natasha folds up the note into a careful square. She makes it smaller than Steve had it before. “When I was a little girl, in the Red Room, they brought in the Winter Soldier to train us. He taught me English.”

“Well? Was it him?”

She puts a hand up, flat against Steve’s rapid-fire heartbeat. “I don’t know,” she says calmly. “He always had a mask.”

“But–” _His eyes_ , Steve almost says. How could you recognize his eyes? Steve spent forever with Bucky; he’s sure he could recognize his eyelashes or the dip of his hairline. If he could just get a good look. One picture. If he could just–

“Steve, it could’ve been anybody.”

He shakes his head. Impossible. It’s either him or it isn’t, and Steve isn’t going to stop until he knows, without a doubt. He’d raze the capitol to the ground with Pierce and Rumlow still tucked inside their high-rise headquarters, if that’s what it took.

“I need to know. You understand? I need to know for sure.”

She shakes her head, disbelieving. Then, she hands the note over and says, “I’ll make a call to Kiev, see if I can use his name to spook my source.”

Steve takes it back, feeling like he could fall to his knees and kiss her feet. “Thank you.”

They go back into the living room in silence.

“Get some sleep,” Natasha threatens, even though he’s apparently been sleeping for days. She makes to leave but stops with her hand on the doorknob. “I don’t think I have to tell you this, but this did not happen. Doesn’t matter if it’s Tony asking or that guy from the VA; I’m not looking into anything for you, you understand?”

“Understood.” Steve holds her eye contact so she doesn’t get any doubts. He’d agree to just about anything.

Satisfied that she’s scared him enough, Natasha steps out and is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With the end of this chapter, I'm issuing a blanket Winter Soldier trauma warning. I’ll be updating the tags to reflect specific things as they come, but expect the usual. Hydra was not kind to Bucky.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here be violence. See end notes for details.

Natasha Romanoff, his phone screen says. _Come to my floor._

Natasha’s dining table is covered in papers. She doesn’t even get up to let Steve in, too busy scrawling down notes like a frantic student.

“Sit down,” she says, so he does.

“Did you…” Is he allowed to talk about this out loud? “Did you find something?”

“You were right.”

Steve tries not to get his hopes up; fails. “What?”

Finally, Nat stops her obsessive note-taking. “It’s him, Steve.”

“You’re positive?” He sounds desperate, even to his own ears.

“Yes. Now, I know this isn’t easy for you to hear, but I…”

Steve runs a hand through his hair. Bucky. Bucky Barnes, his best friend; the little boy who broke off pieces of his candy bars to share with Steve; the man who was just centimeters away on that frozen train. Sometimes, he thinks their fingers brushed. That’s how close it was; he was _right there_.

When Steve woke up in the hospital last week, Nat said that he’d been asking for Bucky. Did Bucky do the same, when he was out of his mind with what they did to him? Did he scream for Steve when they brought out the scalpels and the pliers?

Natasha has stopped talking. She was talking before, and now she’s not.

“Steve?” She says.

“Yeah.”

“You with me?”

“Yeah,” he repeats, not anywhere at all.

“Listen to me now.” She’s stern but not unkind. Steve tries. “We need to bring Tony in. Your friend from the VA, too, if you think we can trust him. Clint just went off the grid and this isn’t a job for Bruce.”

Steve interrupts, finally getting a grip on this. “Where’s Bucky?”

“I don’t know where Bucky is.” It sounds like she told him that already. “Steve, SHIELD is compromised. We need to focus on that first. If you wanna look at these files in peace, look now because I’m going to call Tony down here in a few minutes.”

Steve starts grabbing fistfuls of files, bringing them towards himself. Some have Natasha’s translations in the margins and some are already in English. There’s gotta be something in here. “I need to find him.”

“Did you hear me? SHIELD is compromised.”

“I damn well know that, Nat,” he barks. “Rumlow said ‘heil Hydra’ to me last week. I said it back to Pierce. I fuckin’ know SHIELD is compromised.”

Natasha looks well and truly surprised. About damn time.

She says, “We need to take care of SHIELD first, and I’m gonna need you in on this. If we can get access to their database, we should be able to get more information on Barnes. And then – I promise you – I’ll help you find him.”

Steve looks down at all the files he’s going to have to consume in next few hours. “Okay. What’s your plan?”

Natasha’s plan is: get into the Triskelion, use her credentials to get into Pierce’s office, surprise Pierce, use his credentials to get them into the SHIELD mainframe, then share the entire file database with the public. She wants to bring Fury in, too; but Steve refuses.

“Disabling that encryption code is going to require two Alpha level members,” Natasha argues. “We need Fury and Pierce.”

“That’s where Tony will come in, then. If Fury is dirty, Tony makes two of you against two of them.”

By the time they explain this to Tony, he’s practically bouncing out of his chair.

It turns out that Fury approached Tony a few months earlier, asking him to design repulsor engines and battleship-sized guns for a new class of helicarrier. Not the usual helicarrier guns; Fury had special requirements. He wanted specific targeting technology and a more accurate firing mechanism.

“You didn’t ask why?” Steve demands.

“I’m sorry, do you mean, ‘thank you for that valuable information, Tony. I couldn’t have done this mission without you.’”

“That doesn’t matter now,” Natasha cuts in. “We know why.”

Two partially-built helicarriers and plans to begin work on a third. Natasha’s got pictures of the metal skeletons that will be used to target those who disobey.

It’s going to take them a solid day to pick up Sam and get everybody on the same page, so Tony stays in New York to avoid drawing attention. Steve and Nat sleep at Sam’s that night and Tony flies down the next morning. He crashes through the door during breakfast, damn near knocking it off its hinges.

Apologetically, Tony closes the door very softly. He clangs over to the dining room table, where they’re all seated. “What’s for breakfast?” He grabs a piece of bacon from Steve’s plate. Steve allows it, so Tony goes for his orange juice. “Can I have this?” He asks, drinking hungrily.

“I guess so,” Steve mutters.

Tony waves at Sam. “Hi. Tony Stark. Funder of all things Avengers. Under appreciated by friends.”

They run over the plan again, and all the while, Tony’s nipping away at Steve’s plate. It doesn’t bother him; he’s too anxious to eat.

Steve, Sam, and Nat will drive to the Triskelion, where Nat’s credentials will take her to the executive offices for a bogus meeting with Fury. Meanwhile, Steve and Sam will head for the Hudson hanger, where the helicarriers will hopefully be waiting for them.

“I want to go with you to the Triskelion,” Steve interrupts.

Natasha doesn’t miss a beat. “Why?”

Precisely, Steve says, “I need to be the one to deal with Rumlow and STRIKE.”

“Steve, we don’t have time for personal vendettas.”

“It’s not only that. They’re highly trained, Rumlow especially is dangerous. I’m going with you to the Triskelion. I’ll deal with STRIKE, and then I’ll meet Sam outside the hanger and we’ll take down the helicarriers.”

“What’s your cover, then? Why are you going with me to my meeting?”

Steve thinks. “I was supposed to pick up a new stealth suit weeks ago,” he says. “It’ll be in my locker down the hall from the gym. The shooting range is right there, too. You said Rumlow was at the Triskelion this week, that’s where he’ll be.”

“Fine,” she says.

On Natasha’s signal – and not a second before, she stresses – Tony will fly into Pierce’s office. They’ll dump the files onto the internet, Nat will get her car, and they’ll get the hell out of DC.

Tony clicks open his Iron Man briefcase and pulls out two shiny red saucers. He plunks one in Steve’s palm, the other in Sam’s. “These are for those helicarriers. Enough power in one of these babies to take down a whole fleet of fighter jets.” Sam holds his bomb away from his body, looking warily at Steve and Tony.

“Remote detonation,” Tony goes on, waving a little rectangle. To it, he says, “Jarvis?”

“Yes, Sir,” Jarvis replies from the device.

“He’ll set ‘em off for you when you’re out of there.” Tony hands the thing to Steve. “Stick them to any metal surface. No plastic or glass, or they won’t catch right. Once they’re stuck, they’re not coming off, so choose carefully.”

Steve tucks his detonator into his pocket. He and Natasha are dressed in civvies as to not raise the alarm too soon. They each carry around a few weapons – Steve’s shield and Nat’s knives, EMPs, a garrote, and probably more – under normal circumstances, so they’ll get away with that. Meanwhile, Tony needs his suit and by the time he and Sam are spotted, the plan will already be fully apparent.

Sam slides his own detonator into a pocket of his utility belt, holding a hand out for Steve’s, too. “Want me to take yours or you gonna store it that close to the goods?”

Steve gives it over.

  
  


Steve and Natasha leave Sam in the backseat of the car. “Y’all better not forget about me,” he gripes, just before Nat slams her door shut.

The Triskelion lobby has two sets of elevators; one goes as far as the 39th floor and the other covers everything above that. So, Steve is forcibly separated from Natasha. He walks her to her elevator anyways, making lingering small talk until the doors ding open.

“You still owe me sushi,” he says, and it’s true.

Natasha steps inside and gives him a smile. “Have fun clothes shopping, Rogers.”

Then, she’s gone.

When Steve’s own elevator arrives empty, he punches the _close doors_ button and watches the floor numbers tick past like drips of molasses.

The doors slide open and in walks Rumlow with two burly STRIKE team members.

Rumlow tosses a nod in his direction. “Hey, Cap.”

“Rumlow.” Steve nods back, stepping aside for them; closer to the button panel.

He watches a bead of sweat slide down the temple of one of Rumlow’s pals. Then, the doors open again and a new occupant flits his eyes over Steve. Nervous.

Leaning against the railing, Steve casually pulls out his phone. He opens the group chat with Tony, Sam, and Nat. _They know._

The elevator stops for a third time. Steve smashes the emergency button before the doors can open.

He swings at the back of a head; the guy falls. Pivoting, Steve punches the next one in the gut. When he doubles over, he knees him in the head. Two down.

They start to react in earnest now. Steve dodges a swing, then someone gets his wrist and there’s a hard metal band pulling him towards the wall. Straining against it, two more of them get a handle on his free wrist. Another winds an arm around Steve’s neck.

Steve kicks, taking out one of them at the knees. He throws an elbow to another’s head. Steve’s wrist clangs against the wall; stuck.

He ducks and twists out of the chokehold, throwing the guy onto his back. The tiled floor splinters. Another comes at Steve. Pulling up against his cuffed wrist, he kicks him in the chest. Cracks spiderweb out when his body hits the glass wall.

Steve braces both feet against the wall and _pulls_. His wrist springs free. He’s alone with Brock Rumlow.

Rumlow sticks him with the rod, sending searing pain radiating down to the tips of his toes. Groaning, Steve swings wildly at Rumlow; lands a punch to his cheek. The bone gives under his fist. He wrenches the rod from Rumlow’s grip while he’s distracted by his broken jaw.

Steve slugs him again. Rumlow drops to his knees.

“Stevie,” Rumlow mocks, gasping with laughter. “Stevie?” He says it like a prayer in the middle of a firefight; wishing, desperate.

Steve has never felt such a hunger to make somebody hurt. He sticks the rod into Rumlow’s side, relishing in his wordless screams. Picks him up like a doll and throws him down again. Steve straddles his chest, knees pressed into the hard elevator floor.

“You’re 70 years too late. He won’t know you,” Rumlow spits.

“Yes, he will.”

With both hands, Steve drives the shield into his forehead. It embeds a few inches in. The skin bubbles up around the wound.

Once there was a man who had a piece of the new railroad rammed into his forehead, and he turned into an awful, mean person after that. But Rumlow was already the scum of the Earth, and he’s not going to be getting back up after this.

Steve wipes the blood spray onto his pants as he stands.

Muffled shouts come from the elevator doors. “Get that door open, Rogers! You got nowhere to go!”

Steve jumps.

  
  


In the hanger, Sam’s caught in a corner and taking fire. Steve gets in behind the assailants, ricochets the shield off two skulls, and draws the attention towards himself.

“Where have you been?” Sam asks, sidling up to him to give cover while they dash up to a stack of crates and duck behind it.

Steve accepts the gun Sam puts into his palm. “My comms are out. Rumlow stuck me with some kind of cattle prod, must’ve messed with them.”

“Jesus,” Sam mutters.

Sam managed to get one of their explosives attached before Steve made his way down, so there’s just one helicarrier left; waiting for them across the hanger and hidden behind a massive black tarp.

A few agents are scrabbling uselessly at the fist-sized bomb stuck to the surface of the first helicarrier. Sam’s bullet ricochets off the metal and they duck, before popping back up to try and pry the thing off. It’s futile; Tony designed those to stick.

Several more agents have formed a line in front of them, guns raised.

“I’ll take the left,” Sam says, popping his head from behind their cover to spray bullets, taking out at least one or two.

Steve hurls the shield at a female agent towards the right; the line of them shoot at it. Idiots. It hits its target in the chest. Sam gets another in the stomach as the man’s got his gun trained on the shield.

A surge of bullets beat against the crates. They both jump back, pressed against each other.

Then, a break. Steve draws his gun and peeks out from behind the shield. He and Sam return sustained fire that way. He gets one in the chest; Sam gets another two in their faces. The last one goes running, and Steve shoots him in the back of the head. He drops like a rag doll, one hand twitching against the flat grey floors.

“Let’s go,” Steve urges. They might not get another clearing like this.

Sam and Steve slip behind a stalled out forklift, taking aim at the three agents still trying to get the detonator off the helicarrier. Only one seems armed. He fires wildly at them; a bullet zips past Steve’s arm, shearing the fabric of his sleeve.

He sends the shield flying in response, knocking one of the unarmed men out cold. Another flurry of bullets ding against the forklift. Sam fires. The gunman goes down. When Steve peeks, the last remaining man is crouched down; there’s blood pooling around the gunman’s head.

The man gives up quickly, scrabbling from his fatally injured friend.

“Take him?” Sam asks, gun raised.

“Yeah.” Steve hasn’t got a whit of compassion for anyone who harms Bucky. He’d happily shoot dead the ones who knowingly took the socks from his feet or designed the screws for his handcuffs. No one gets to close their eyes against this.

The man drops.

Steve and Sam nearly make it to the shadowy tarp covering the second helicarrier. Then, another squad tromps in, boots skidding on the floor as they open fire.

They’re caught behind a boom lift; its extended arm holding one corner of the tarp. “You gotta get up there,” Sam grunts, forcing himself to the edge of their cover and returning fire. Steve hesitates.

He can’t leave Sam here with a full squad. Steve unholsters his gun. “One more minute.”

Sighing, Sam leans out again. He fires two deliberate shots; Steve can hear them both hit their targets, thunking heavily into flesh. Sam tucks back in, and Steve gives him a look of approval.

“Didn’t I tell you I had it?” Sam teases.

Steve edges close to the gap between the boom lift and the helicarrier, waiting for Sam’s signal.

When he gives cover, Steve dashes for the helicarrier, ducked over with his shield raised. Bullet impacts vibrate through his forearm.

He makes it.

Under the tarp and obscured from the gun fight, Steve can see the second helicarrier for the first time. It’s not nearly as far along as the first. There’s no shell to hold the detonator.

The ramp is finished, but it’s a shiny industrial plastic. Steve scans for a metal surface large enough for the detonator to stick. The floor is a latticework of steel beams, with a few ladders and a network of platforms reaching several stories into the air.

Steve rushes to the steel beam flooring and cranes his neck to study them; good material, maybe eight inches in width compared to the detonator’s six. He unclips the explosive. Underhand, Steve lobs it upwards. It brushes one of the beams; sticks.

Steve turns and runs for the tarp. Now they just need to get far enough away.

Sam has moved to another stack of crates, further from the helicarrier. Two Hydra agents remain, holed up against a wall. Steve rears back with the shield and–

A man steps out, just feet from Sam’s spot; he’s masked; he has a metal arm.

Bucky makes a beeline for Sam, who must turn from the Hydra agents. Sam starts spraying bullets but Bucky flips out of the way and ducks behind another stack of crates.

Movement at Steve’s three o’clock. He pivots and knocks the gun out of the guy’s hand, sending him flying. There are two more men behind him. Steve slings the shield. It bounces off one’s skull, then off the hanger wall, and back to Steve. He snatches it out of the air, bringing it down to cover the last man’s bullets. The guy advances. Steve runs at him when he goes to reload and whips him with the shield. He’s out.

Another pair of agents step towards Steve. He redirects their own bullets into one’s thigh. Grabs the other’s gun and kicks him in the pelvis. Done.

Steve whips around, searching for Sam and Bucky.

He’s just in time to watch Bucky grab Sam’s arm and yank; like a rag doll, Sam flies over Bucky’s head and slams to the ground.

“ _Bucky!_ ”

Bucky turns to Steve and raises his gun.

There’s barely time to get the shield over his face before it’s being pinged with bullets. Bucky doesn’t let up; he’s brutal. Cold.

When Bucky empties his clip, he reaches to his hip holster and Steve takes advantage; he swings, connects with Bucky’s jaw. He tries swinging with the shield, but Bucky catches it easily, swipes it away, and punches Steve square in the chest.

He flies backwards, the shield slipping from his grip.

There’s a knife in Bucky’s hand. He advances like a wild animal.

Steve deflects him once, twice, three times; rapid fire swats, just to keep Bucky at bay. Steve smacks the knife out of his hand. It falls. Bucky rotates his wrist and grabs it on the downfall, stabs at Steve again.

Pain spots in his shoulder. He screams. It takes both hands to pull Bucky’s knife out. The patch of warmth spreads sluggishly, so it must not have hit anything too important. The wound still stings and pulls when he throws a punch to Bucky’s head.

He connects, but Bucky doesn’t react. He headbutts Steve, making him wrench back, seeing stars.

Bucky’s so goddamn quick.

Steve gets hold of Bucky’s human wrist and spins around him, kicks him in the back of the knee. Bucky goes down, pulling Steve up and over him as he falls.

On his back, Steve gasps for air. He sits up just as Bucky’s pulled another knife out. Steve scrambles to his feet, deflects Bucky’s first lunge, and kicks out. Bucky crashes into the wall of the helicarrier.

Then, something heavy whizzes over Steve’s head, close enough that the force of it brushes the tops of his hair.

The helicarrier explodes, hot against Steve’s exposed skin; mushrooming towards the rafters.

Steve turns around; it’s Sam, leaning heavily on a stack of crates with a grenade launcher in his hands.

When he turns back, Bucky has disappeared in the smoke.

  
  


Sam hisses in pain when he puts any weight on his right leg. With the Potomac waterfalling into the gaping hanger in their wake, Steve pops his dislocated shoulder back in. Then, helps him limp to Natasha’s car, depositing him into the back seat before hopping in the front. Nat peels away from the curb as he shuts his door.

At least she checks her mirrors. “Alright back there, Wilson?”

“Fine,” Sam grunts.

As Natasha merges onto the highway, Steve gives her a condensed debrief. He keeps the Bucky-related stuff vague and she calls him on it. “Where did Barnes go?”

“I don’t know.”

“Steve.”

“I _don’t know_ , Natasha.”

She drives.

Gently, Natasha says, “He probably went back to them.”

“I don’t know,” Steve repeats; but really, that’s a lie. He didn’t break through the programming. Buck was trying to kill him until the very end. If there was some Hydra agent somewhere to take Bucky back, then that’s where he is.

Starting her own quasi-debrief, Natasha pointedly starts out with the fact that Fury was not dirty.

It went fine. The files are on the internet as they speak.

“Tony on his way back?” Steve asks.

Natasha’s mouth twitches; a tiny tell. She’s _angry_. “Yes.”

“Pierce?”

“Dead,” Natasha says. A statement of fact.

“You’re sure?”

She mimes pulling a trigger twice. “I made sure.”

Steve lets out a breath, watching the road reach out in front of them; from the tires of Natasha’s car to the brim of the horizon. It’s Wednesday, he reminds himself. It’s the year 2013.

Nat keeps glancing over, as if to make sure he’s still with her. She gives in and asks, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A near decapitation. Generally, the violence is less Disney and more “what might happen if you gave a superpowered dude an unbreakable Frisbee and really pissed him off”


	7. Chapter 7

Back at the Tower, they face the fact that Natasha dumped all of SHIELD’s files onto the internet. Well, not all of them. Nat has a few cases full of things that might only be in hard copies.

In a spacious conference room, they set up a few laptops and Steve carries in an additional printer. Apparently, Natasha collects writing utensils, because she shows up with a gallon-sized bag filled with pens, highlighters, and markers from her floor.

Without knocking, Tony peeks his head into the room. No one pays him any attention. He picks Steve’s phone out of his back pocket, snatches Natasha’s off the table.

Natasha sighs. “What do you want, Tony?” That’s a little harsh.

“Oh, nothing. I’ll just be taking these for repairs, seeing as you guys’ve probably gotten Nazi spyware on them.” Tony points at Sam. “Hey, Sam, right? Welcome to my tower. Give me your phone.”

“Tony, we’re working,” Natasha says. “If you want to sweep the phones, fine, but go do it somewhere else.”

“So, that’s the thanks I get? Doesn’t really make a guy wanna pick up the phone next time you call for Nazi killing help.”

“Noted. We won’t call you again.”

“Good plan. It’s not like I did all the work today, anyways.”

She chuckles. “You severely overestimate your importance, Tony.”

“That’s ironic, coming from someone who–”

“Will both of you _shut up?_ ” Steve thunders.

They go quiet as scolded school children. Tony leaves and Natasha sinks back down into her chair; and Steve can’t bring himself to give a damn about their admonished silence or whatever might have happened between them in Pierce’s office. He gets what he wants; they shut up and get back to work.

For hours, Steve, Sam, and Natasha pour over files. When needed, Natasha translates the pages and then slides them down the table to Steve, her neat English notes in felt tip pen tucked in the margins and paragraph breaks. Aside from Steve and Sam occasionally asking Nat to help with a German word, they work in silence.

As the streetlights below them start to go on, Sam passes Steve the first picture.

It must have been from the early days; black and white, grainy, but it’s Bucky alright. Just half of his jawline and a peek of his lips, with the real focus of the image being the scarred welding on his shoulder.

Steve leans back in his chair and breathes through his nose.

Slowly, Natasha says, “It’s been a long day.” She’s staring at Sam. “Maybe we should save the pictures for another time.”

“No, I want to see them right now,” Steve says, stubbornly curling forward into the table. Neither moves to give him anything. “I need to see them, Nat. He’s _my_ – I have the right to see them.”

Natasha leans over to dig in her bag, which has been resting innocuously beside her chair. She pulls out a thick folder. They’ve been here for hours, and she’s had them in there the entire time!?

“When were you going to give me these,” Steve orders.

Natasha shrugs. “Probably tomorrow.”

He takes the folder. “You two should go to dinner,” he says coldly. They don’t put up much of a fight.

When they’re gone, Steve takes the folder of pictures and a small stack of English files he hasn’t finished reading and goes to his apartment, leaving a scattered mess in the conference room.

  
  


Hydra was careful. Names are blacked out and instead of signatures, they’ve instituted some kind of stamp system. On the highest-level files, a circular symbol bleeds red into the pages. _Lernaean_ arches across the top and spindly branches weave a symmetric pattern around the dark pentagon in the center.

Steve finds an English contract, filled with legalese.

In exchange, XXXXX, US Division (“US”) shall take possession of the Wxxxxx Sxxxxxx (“the Asset”). The Moscow branch (“Moscow”) of XXXXX, Kremlin Division assumes full responsibility for the secure and timely transfer of the Asset. . .Should the Asset be determined to be in an unacceptable state upon arrival, Moscow shall owe expectancy damages up to. . .

Stapled to the back of the packet, Steve flips over a receipt.

Signature to confirm delivery, it says. On the signature line – above Commander Xxxxxx – is the Lernaean stamp from the earlier papers.

Next to the stamp: a proud, loopy “A.” It could mean anything, but it’s the only signature line with something other than a stamp or a symbol. Alexander goddamn Pierce just couldn’t help himself; he had to sign for Bucky, like a package.

There are _so many_ pictures.

A close up on the raw, mangled flesh of Bucky’s shoulder, and then a follow-up of the searing maze of scars that scatter out from his metal arm.

The palm of his hand with the skin flayed back. Little slits on each fingertip.

Bucky in full combat gear; two different variations of a similar outfit.

A dark, grimy little cell with a bowl on the ground beside a spaghetti-pile of thick chains.

Bucky, naked and standing with his feet spread apart; a suited arm reaches into the frame to hold Bucky’s metal arm straight out at his side. Steve has been looking at this stuff for hours, but that’s the one that gets him. It’s somewhat recent; clear enough to make out the little scar just below Bucky’s right knee. It was there during the war, when Steve pressed a kiss to it as he crawled up Bucky’s body, making him laugh and pull at Steve’s arm.

“Get up here, you goddamn sap,” he’d teased, getting both his hands on Steve’s face to pull him in for a kiss.

From the washed out photograph, Bucky stares blankly; and Steve realizes he’s crying all over it. Fuck. He should’ve been just a little sweeter with Buck, enduring the teasing while he still had the chance; should’ve tried a little harder to convince him to stay the night in his quarters, even when the base was crawling with army personnel and Bucky was so damn paranoid about being caught.

Steve pushes the papers back and tries to catch his breath. He tries to think of something other than the little dimple on Bucky’s chin; how it felt to press his thumb into it and curl a finger under his jaw and tilt his face up, kiss into his smile.

Steve has to shove his chair back to rest his forehead against the table. He gets one, good gasping breath, and then he has a handle on it.

He will find Bucky. He will. He has to.

  
  


As soon as he sees it, Steve knows that this is what the note was referring to. _He deserves your honesty when the time comes._

He wishes he could wrap this up tight and bury it deep in the Earth, where no one can ever fish it out. Steve doesn’t want to have this in his possession at all. They should’ve left it in DC.

A small, black and white picture of Howard Stark paperclipped to the inside folder. Deceased. December 16, 1991.

Tony _does_ deserve his honesty, is the thing. Steve couldn’t see that at the time.

When Steve could hardly keep his head on straight during that first spring, Tony gave him an apartment to fuss over. Tony sent his drones to Austria for Steve, and then he gave him a car that took him to Pennsylvania and Aspen and the Santa Monica Pier. He did all that, even before Steve had an exciting mission to share.

Before Steve can talk himself out of it, he goes to his phone. New message. Tony Stark. _You free tomorrow? I need to show you something._

That’s it. There’s no going back now. Three little, moving dots pop up. Steve sets his phone on the table and stares down at it.

 _Sure_ , Tony says. More dots, and then: _meet on common floor at 11?_

He’s so unaware, it makes Steve feel sick to his stomach. Tony has no goddamn clue.

 _I’ll be there_ , Steve sends back.

  
  


He hardly sleeps, gets up when the light in his bedroom turns misty grey. Methodically, Steve packs up the clothes that he wears most often. The shield is slung into its harness, ready to leave. He takes a trip down to the garage to put everything on the back of his bike.

Before his meeting with Tony, Steve calls Sam and Nat into his apartment and silently gives them the file with Howard Stark’s greyed out face staring from the page.

“I think you should go away for a while,” Natasha tells him, straight faced.

“Already packed,” Steve says.

Natasha takes the file from Sam and returns it to Steve. “Clint’s not using his place in Bed-Stuy.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sam says. “We’re going to DC.”

Sam gets his own things together quickly, but Steve can tell he’s a little disappointed at having to leave the Tower so soon. Sam’s got a car, so they pile all the essentials – laptops, external hard drives, physical files, Nat’s translations – into his trunk. Natasha helps them load the car and doesn’t say anything about her plans; Steve secretly hopes she’ll stay with Bruce and Pepper to keep an eye on Tony. He doesn’t like the idea of Tony rattling around his abruptly empty Tower.

Just before 10am, Sam sets off for DC. _I got a dozen bagels for the road_ , he texts Steve.

He’s going to miss that little bagel shop.

Still, staying here and risking a blowup with Tony is not an option. They need space.

  
  


Steve is in the common room by 10:50am, but Tony doesn’t show for another twenty minutes. When he finally arrives, he plops down on the couch and puts his feet up on the coffee table.

“What’s up, Cap?” He sounds tired. “Is this Breaking Bad?”

Steve doesn’t know. He turned on the TV just so he wouldn’t have to sit in silence with this burning file on Tony’s goddamn end table.

“Yeah, I’ve seen this one,” Tony says. “You don’t know this show, but you’re watching season five? You’re spoiling yourself.”

“I guess I am.”

Tony grabs the remote and flips a few channels. “I knew you had a dark side. Who jumps into the last season of Breaking Bad?” He finds something suitable; people with English accents discussing cakes or something. “You know, if you’re going to try and apologize for yelling at me and Romanoff, we can skip over that. I know you’ve got a raging guilt complex, but this is a lot, even for you.”

Steve did not plan this conversation out, so he ends up saying, “I guess you can pull your drones out of the Alps.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “Um, yeah. I watch the news, Cap. Thanks for the heads up on that, by the way. The real question is: why did you have me looking for him?” Tony squints at him. “You knew something, didn’t you?”

“I had a feeling.”

“Fair enough. If you’d told me that you thought he was alive, I’da thought you were batshit. Probably smart of you not to tell me.”

Steve shakes his head. “I should have told you. I told Nat, I should have told you, too.” Taking the file from the end table, Steve looks at Tony across the couch. “I’m sorry, Tony.”

Quietly, Tony says, “It’s okay. Really.” He’s watching Steve like a lit fuse.

Standing, Steve offers Tony a hand up and he takes it, a little confused. “I need to leave town for a while, but this is for you. Look at it later, okay?”

The file slips through his fingers. Out and into the world.

“Whatever you say, Cap.” Tony gives a salute as he turns to go; it’s so bad, Phillips would have had him on the next plane stateside.

“I’ll see you around, Tony.”

Steve takes his bike and leaves for DC.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m posting a lil bonus chapter today bc it’s Steve’s birthday. Happy birthday to Steve Rogers only! @america sry sweetie sit down and think about what you’ve done and we’ll try again next year

Once he makes it to Sam’s apartment, Steve sits at the dining table with one of their precious New York bagels. He fidgets with his phone until Sam tells him to stop.

Sam goes to bed around ten, but Steve stays in the living room and turns on the TV. His bag gets dumped in the guest bedroom; zipped up tight.

He switches channels every so often. There’s just nothing good on, that’s all. Steve tires of each show he finds, and then tires of TV entirely. He turns it off; turns it back on but goes to Netflix. Scrolling through all the different genres is overwhelming; there’s so much that there’s nothing.

Steve’s phone buzzes against his leg.

Scrambling, he slides the call open. “Tony?” Steve can hear rustling on the other end.

“Jus couldn’t tell me to m’face, huh, Cap?” Tony sneers.

His heart is beating fast. “I didn’t want to– I thought you might need some space.”

“Yeah, you tell yourself that, you fucking–” White noise, like he’s readjusting the phone. “How long ‘ave y’known?”

“I found out just before I texted you.”

More rustling. When Tony finally speaks again, it’s rough. Slurred. “I’m done. Out.”

All Steve says is, “Okay. I’m out of your hair.”

He thinks Tony will hang up on him, but he doesn’t. “You’re not gonna stop,” he accuses, “are you?”

“You know I can’t, Tony.”

Quiet and suddenly clear, Tony says, “You better hope I don’t find him first.” He hangs up.

  
  


Where Tony goes, the money and the quinjet go.

Sam lets Steve crash in his guest room in DC, then helps him find an apartment in Brooklyn. He doesn’t say anything about the fact that Steve only looks at two bedroom places.

Once they find a place, Sam practically moves into the spare bedroom – for now – and Steve’s life settles into a pattern for the first time since he woke up here. They spend the dog days of summer mucking through Hydra bases all across the Eastern seaboard. The tables and countertops in Steve’s Brooklyn apartment are perpetually covered with files and there’s always somebody sleeping on the couch.

“This place is, like, a Nazi killing frat house,” Clint says, when he’s in town for a few days. He points to the living room’s lone wall decoration: an oversized map dotted with post-its and pins. “Seriously, guys?”

Clint and a friend – Kate, who can’t be older than twenty or so – help them out with a compound in Western Jersey. Afterwards. the five of them scarf down some Chinese takeout before Clint and Kate have to leave.

In Snow Hill, Maryland, Steve and Sam find their first batch of files. Not just one or two – like they’ve scrounged up before – but a whole mess of them.

They spread them out on the cheap carpet of their motel room, separating them into those they can read through, and those that need to be sent to Natasha for translation. Most are in English, so they work well into the night to sift through the information. The carpet’s tough whorls bite into Steve’s knees and turn them an angry red.

Waiting for Nat to respond, Steve tries his hand at reading one of the German files on his own. It doesn’t go well; that is, until he gives up and starts into the English files instead. “They’re the same,” Steve realizes.

“What?”

“These are translations,” he says, arranging the English and matching German files side by side.

“You read German now?’

“I can read a few words. I’m pretty sure they’re the same.”

The files are all test results, probably translated when Bucky was brought to the US.

Subject BB continues to experience extreme confusion and is unable to maintain a standing position. Time elapsed: 132 hours . . . Subject BB had a second seizure at approximately 176 hours and 31 minutes. It submitted itself to branding when offered a glass of water . . . Subject BB went into cardiac arrest and was given intravenous fluids. COMPLETE TIME ELAPSED: 189 hours and 16 minutes. 

It goes on and on. Steve flips the page over.

When experiencing issues of noncompliance, feeding intervals of 30-40 days are recommended. To ensure the continuance of the Winter Soldier program, exceeding 75 days without food is not recommended.

There’s a single picture attached; Bucky, slumped against a cell wall. His ribs stick out grotesquely; his eyes look black and dead, like a shark’s. God, he looks like one of the corpse-like men who staggered out of a camp they once found, deep behind enemy lines.

Steve tries to say that he’s taking a break but he gags as soon as he opens his mouth and has to rush to the bathroom.

With his stomach empty, Steve leans an elbow against the cold toilet seat and rests his forehead in his palm. He has to keep his mouth shut to starve off the dry heaving.

When Steve finally leaves the bathroom, Sam is sitting flat on his ass with the file in one hand, the picture in the other.

He looks up at Steve, rattled. “They starved him,” he whispers. Only the back of the picture is visible.

Absurdly, Steve feels afraid of it. He wants to duck behind his hands, like a kid watching a scary film.

“The picture,” Steve says. “Put it away.”

Sam quietly tucks the photograph back into its paperclip and lets the file flop shut.

  
  


A couple months since Steve left the Tower, Pepper texts him out of the blue. It’s a link to an article about Bucky. No comment.

The New York Times op-ed is called _James Barnes and America’s Need for a Sacrificial Lamb_ and it details all the reasons why pinning all these crimes on Bucky is a shitty substitute for the Alexander Pierce trial they will ever get. With a bit of digging, Steve finds an address for the kid who wrote it; twenty three year old Ronan Lovett, Yale grad, former UNICEF spokesperson. He writes a nice note and sends it out, not convinced that it’ll reach its intended recipient.

About a week later, Steve gets a handwritten, gushing response. _If you’re ever interested in doing an interview to talk this over further_ , Ronan writes, _I’d love to be the lucky journalist._ Steve doesn’t respond.

Sam and Natasha come up with a car game; they make mixed up, whiplash playlists of songs from all the years Steve missed and have him guess the decade. At first, he’s hilariously terrible. But over time, he starts to pick up on cues – the staticky drums of the 60; dramatic vocals of the 80s – until he’s accurate enough that Sam and Nat start placing bets on whether he’ll guess the next song. Steve places Sweet Child O’ Mine in the 80s and wins Sam his choice of fast food options. He mistakes Fortunate Son for the 70s and Natasha has to give over her last piece of gum.

One night in southern Kentucky, Steve and Nat sit on the porch of their Colonial-style bed and breakfast. It’s nicer than they usually get, so Sam heads to bed early to take advantage.

The air is thick and warm. They have to set out little containers of citronella oil to keep the mosquitos at bay.

Natasha is watching him carefully tonight. “I’ve got a question for you,” she says.

“Shoot.”

“Who do you think wrote that note?”

Steve looks up at the sky. Their neighbors are having a bonfire outside their place; he watches the grey smoke twist and curl towards the stars. “I really couldn’t tell you, Natasha.”

Quietly, she kicks off her flip flops and puts her feet up on the railing.

“When I fought…Loki earlier that day, he was disguised as me. He told me that Bucky was alive.”

“You think Loki had something to do with it?” She asks, swatting at a mosquito that made it past their repellent.

Steve swirls his tea and listens to the ice clatter against his glass. Condensation drips onto his thighs. “I don’t know if that was Loki.”

“Who do you think it was?”

“I don’t know,” Steve admits. “I don’t care who they were or why they did it. Everything they’ve said has turned out to be true, and they’re leading me to Bucky.”

Nat dips a finger into the citronella oil and spreads it across the insides of her wrists like perfume. “I’m here because I promised you. But I’m still not convinced this is a good idea.”

“He’d do it for me.”

The smoke from the neighbors’ fire is a thin rope. Natasha looks from it, to Steve. “You know, we knew two different versions of him.”

“Tell me about yours.”

Natasha brings her bare feet down to the second rung of their fence. “He was quiet. I remember wishing my English was as good as his. Never remembered our names from one lesson to the next. But I wasn’t afraid of him, not like the other teachers.”

“Why?”

“I was young. Children have strange ways of thinking.”

Steve knows why, anyways. Natasha’s got a reader on people; she sees you down to your bones, even if you don’t want her to. She’s a good listener. She doesn’t stop watching when a person gets quiet, lets the conversation drift from them. He thinks of little Nat trying to shape her mouth around Bucky’s Brooklyn accent, and Steve’s glad they had each other in that terrible place that he couldn’t be.

  
  


When they run out of Nazis to blow up in the States, Natasha takes them to Eastern Europe to do more of the same.

The air turns crisp and cool. Hydra bases in Austria, Hungary, and Romania run dry. Even Natasha can’t find anything else for them to do in Czech Republic. So, they fly back to New York with the same number of people they arrived in Europe with.

On Thanksgiving morning, Natasha texts Steve halfway through his jog with Sam. _Mission alert. Extraction imminent. Meet at the curb. :)_

Steve puts on the breaks, holds out an arm to stop Sam, too.

“Shit, it’s Nat. I’m sorry, Sam, I’ve gotta go. You don’t have to come, if you don’t want to.”

“Oh, cut it out, man. Of course. I’m coming.”

_Do you have Sam’s wings too?_

_Duh_ , she replies. Is she texting and driving!?

“Am I coming,” Sam mutters, shaking his head.

Natasha picks them up from the curb in her flashy sports car. She drives them out of the city, stopping in a parking lot where Clint is waiting with a van.

  
  


When they get to Ohio, the clouds have opened into a perpetual drizzle.

Natasha breaks a guard’s neck and uses his eye to get them in unnoticed. They clear the first hallway easily, ducking into a room with three wide-eyed men and a wall of screens, Steve takes one out with a silent throw of the shield, while Nat shoots the closest one and flips over a desk to deal with the other. The guy slips under his desk before she can grab him.

A siren starts blaring.

After that, they don’t bother with subtlety; Sam swoops overhead, sending a few scattered blasts to the shell of the building. It draws a team of combatants out; their boots thump down the hallway, right past Steve and Natasha’s surveillance room.

Clint gives them nicknames as he picks them off.

The base isn’t as busy as Natasha had made it seem during her brief. They sweep through room after room, no one giving them too much trouble. In one of the rooms, Steve finds a burnt out trash can filled with ash and still leaking a thin wisp of smoke.

All the files are gone. Natasha manages to get into a computer, Steve covering her with a gun she shoved into his hands. But there’s nothing there either.

When Nat steps back and announces it a lost cause, Steve takes the computer in his hands and throws it onto the floor. He smashes his shield into the monitor. It cracks in two splinters, indifferent.

They find several wiry men in business casual scuttering around a hole in the ground. A bookshelf is toppled beside the hole; Steve realizes after they’ve cleared the room that it must’ve been to obscure it.

He leans over the inky black spot on the floor.

“Anybody have a flashlight?”

“Oh, yeah,” Clint drawls. “Let me just pull a flashlight out of my ass while I’m 40 feet off the ground balancing in tree branches.”

Natasha pulls the tiniest flashlight Steve has ever seen from a pocket on her hip. She hands it to him, peering into the hole.

Steve drops in. It’s so dark, his flashlight is near useless. This is what it must be like at the bottom of the ocean, where the sun can’t reach and the creatures go undetected. Steve feels like he’s at the bottom of the ocean, too; the pops of gunfire have thinned and his teammates’ footfalls are too soft to make it through the thick ceilings. His comms crackle uselessly.

“Anything?” Natasha is leaning down from the ceiling like she’s on a jungle gym, free falling hair haloed in the one column of sunlight in this place.

“There’s another level down here,” Steve calls, standing over a second pit.

“It’s clear up here. You want me to come down?”

Steve shakes his head, then realizes she can’t see him for shit. “No, I’m just gonna check it out really quick.”

“Clint’s getting the jet.” She retreats into the ceiling, leaving floating flecks of dust in her wake.

Steve chips his shield against the concrete wall until a shard comes loose. He drops it into the hole and listens; no more than a 12 foot drop. Gripping the edge, Steve lowers himself down. The floor seems solid enough from what he can feel with the tips of his toes, so he drops.

If he thought it was dark before, it’s impossibly worse now. Steve can’t see his own hand in front of his face. He creeps forward, shield raised.

Something is dripping; a soft plink…plink coming from down the hall.

The light falls on a grimy wall. Steve follows it until it opens up into another hallway. He’s got to be careful here, with his comms out and his teammates muffed by the brick and concrete above him. Even with his enhanced memory, anybody could get lost down here.

Steve takes a step down the hallway, and a blinding red light starts flashing. Then, another and another, racing down the hall.

At the end: a mess of wires. He slings the shield onto his back and blindly runs the other way.

The hole he came through is a dimmed grey circle above him. He jumps, grabs the edge, and yanks himself through it.

Steve sprints for the spotlight with heat licking at his heels. He pulls himself back to the ground floor. His comms sparkle back to life. “Get away from the building!” Steve shouts, jumping over piles of rubble as he races for the exit.

Fire starts to engulf the building. He can hear the real blast forming deep in the earth.

There’s no time to do anything but put up the shield and let the blast knock him back on his ass. As fate would have it, the rain has turned the dirt into mud, and that’s what he finds himself sitting in.

“You alright, Cap?” Clint asks, hanging around in the jet’s entryway.

“Fine,” Steve groans. He gingerly stands up, shaking out a glove. There’s mud in both his boots and caking his entire lower body.

“Everything looks clear from up here,” Sam says. He lands on his feet in front of Steve, gracefully tucking in the wings.

“Here, too,” Clint chimes.

“Good,” Steve grunts. Trying to swipe himself clean is a useless endeavor. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

As he shakes out a glove, Sam gives him a silent once over. “Dude, what happened to your suit?”

  
  


The next morning, the door rings just as Steve and Sam are finally getting up. It’s Natasha and Clint, carrying two baking pans covered with aluminum foil. They walk past him and into the apartment.

“Happy Thanksgiving,” Natasha calls, kicking her shoes to the side with all the carelessness of an American.

“Thanksgiving was yesterday.”

“Shut it, Cap,” Clint says. “Time is a social construct.”

So, they have Thanksgiving while the rest of the city has Black Friday.

After gorging themselves on mashed potatoes and stuffing and pumpkin pie, Clint and Nat go back to the bedrooms for a nap. It leaves Steve and Sam to sink heavily into the couch with a football game on the TV – because Sam insists it’s tradition.

Sam says, “This time next year, we might have a fifth guest.”

“I hope.”

For a while, Sam quietly watches the game. Someone gets a touchdown. Their fans are decked out in black and gold face paint, waving flags and screaming into the camera.

“Sam,” Steve says, “I think I should have stayed in New York. With Tony, I mean. Let him kick me out on his own.”

Sam pumps a fist when his team – or, the team he’s rooting for today – gets a field goal. “I don’t know the man, met him like once. But personally, if you did that to me, I’d kick your ass.”

“Why’d you come with me then? If you thought leaving New York was wrong.”

“I told you, I don’t know the man. And it sure as hell isn’t my job to keep you in line. You’re a grown ass dude. I trusted your judgement, you probably fumbled that one a little, it happens. It doesn’t excuse Stark going after Barnes.”

Steve takes a drink. Thinking. Sam’s probably right; Sam’s right most times.

The TV cycles into commercials and Sam hits a button that makes them go faster. He looks at Steve. “You loved him – Barnes – huh?”

That doesn’t even come close, to say that he loved Bucky. Bucky taught him how to love. He loved Bucky before he knew what that meant, and when Bucky died, he took all the light with him.

“Still do,” Steve says.

Sam claps a hand on Steve’s shoulder. He’s got a way of being there without making Steve feel watched or pressured to say the right thing.

In real time, Steve realizes, “I don’t think I’ve ever told anybody that.”

Sam smiles. “I’m glad I could be the first.”


	9. Chapter 9

A noisy minority of the country just wants Bucky’s head on a platter. They have since Natasha leaked those SHIELD files last spring, and they probably always will. Thankfully, most people can see some reason. Steve reads CNN articles and scrolls through Politico polls, showing that most of the public – anywhere from 68 to 73 percent, depending on the poll – believe Bucky should receive psychiatric treatment. Around 55 percent believe he should be forced into a mental institution, but less than 20 think that he deserves prison time.

The SHIELD files only had a few scarce references to Bucky, but that was enough for someone to pick out and spill on Twitter. A few months after Natasha’s initial leak, pieces from a few of the more gruesome Winter Soldier files ended up on online. Nat still swears it wasn’t her, Steve hasn’t spoken to anyone from SI in months, and it could’ve been a third party for all he knows.

Those little glimpses did the lion’s share of shifting the way the country views Bucky. Poll answers for “It is most important that Sergeant Barnes…” snapped dramatically from “…be prosecuted in a court of law” to “…receive psychological treatment.” Journalists who aren’t Ronan Lovett started writing sympathetic articles. On graphs that track public opinion over time, it’s a sharp little X.

Steve tracks the polling data but doesn’t let it get to him. The vast majority of the public will change their minds, anyways. The ones who won’t – who pin everything on Bucky and won’t listen to reason – aren’t worth Steve’s time; they can go fuck themselves.

One night, he tells this to someone on Twitter who tagged him in a nasty message about Bucky. Steve’s never used his Twitter, even though it was created shortly after he woke up. Somebody from SI PR has the password and tweets out messages for him. Soon after Steve gave over the Howard Stark file, the account went dark.

A few minutes after he sends out his tweet, Steve gets a text from Natasha. _Got control of your Twitter huh_ , it says.

His Twitter message gets a whole lot of reposts, or something; Natasha and Clint are among them. Bruce and Sam aren’t on Twitter, but Tony’s very active.

Steve googles: how to tell if you’ve been blocked on Twitter. Then, he goes to Tony’s account and sees all his little tweet messages listed there, so he’s not blocked.

Steve opens up his messages with Natasha. _Have you talked to Tony lately?_

 _Lol nope_ , she replies. _Have you?_ An emoji with two eyeballs looking to the side.

_I’ve tried but no._

_Maybe try not bringing up Barnes_ , Natasha says.

  
  


Steve goes crawling back to Caroline and the VA. She’s kind enough not to bring up DC or Steve’s repeated and extended absences. He starts driving disabled vets to their doctor’s appointments again.

It feels useful. It’s something.

Bucky may be unreachable, but there are still real, tangible things for Steve to do here.

When he gets back from his route one afternoon, he’s fiddling with his keys and spots something on his welcome mat. Dark red circular stains; three of them.

Steve doesn’t have his shield – does he ever, when he needs it? – but the kitchen is just inside. If he could get there, to the knife block…

He turns the door handle carefully. If he opens it too wide, it’ll creak; so he gives himself a crack just big enough to slip through.

“What are you doing, sneaking around?”

Natasha.

She’s sitting on the couch, pressing an ice pack to her ankle. There’s a bandage wrapped tightly around her forearm.

With all their Bucky-related leads dried up, Sam’s firmly back in DC, so Nat takes over the guest bedroom. For the next few weeks, Steve has a new roommate. She hobbles around the apartment on her badly broken ankle and stubbornly makes herself tea every morning.

He learns that Natasha loves 80s movies, even the cheesy ones with bad special effects. They watch Back to the Future and The Shining. Steve’s not sure he gets the appeal of The Breakfast Club, but E.T. is awfully sweet.

“This one is actually from the early 90s,” Nat explains, referencing her phone while she navigates the TV cursor to Jurassic Park.

She’s full of movie trivia, too; always getting in a few fun facts before the credits roll on their movie-of-the-night. After Natasha’s got him roped in with the classics, she starts into chick flicks and romance movies that Steve might’ve rolled his eyes at, had she brought those out first.

After they finish When Harry Met Sally – with all its discussion of whether men and women can be friends without sex getting in the way – Steve tries out one of the new words Natasha has taught him. “That was very heteronormative,” he decides.

She laughs, surprised. Hey, he listens sometimes.

“It was,” she agrees.

When Natasha’s ankle finally heals up and she takes off for Europe, Steve lets himself be a little sad at her absence.

  
  


It’s been almost six months since Steve and Tony spoke – if their clipped exchange over the phone could be considered speaking – when Steve gets a text from Jarvis.

_Reminder: Meeting, tomorrow 1300. 75th floor, L2_

The 75th floor is the more recreational of the two common floors, with a large gym, shooting range, and a few laboratories. Unless things have changed since Steve was last up there, Lab Two is Tony’s largest and favorite one.

The next morning, Steve gets to the Tower early. He drags his feet the last few paces to the back entrance.

When he steps into the elevator, Jarvis chimes in. “It’s good to see you again, Captain Rogers. I’ll take you to the 75th floor now.”

“Thanks, Jarvis.” Honestly, Steve says, “It’s good to see you again, too.”

Tony is already in the lab; twelve minutes early. He gives no acknowledgement that Steve has entered. “I found something,” Tony says, to the holographic map in front of his face.

“Tony, I think we should talk.”

“Do you not hear these sounds coming out of my mouth?”

“Will you just listen for a minute?”

Tony taps something on the screen of his watch. “Ready? Wait…go.”

Well, Steve didn’t really think of what he was going to say; he didn’t know how this was going to go at all. “I shouldn’t have given you the file and left like that. I wasn’t ready to face what…what Bucky did. It wasn’t him, but– At the time, I thought I was helping you out by giving you space, but I can see now that I was really looking out for myself. I–”

“Okay!” Tony calls. There’s no way a full minute has passed. “I’ve heard enough. There’s a reason I deleted your sad voicemail. You’re– Actually, you wanna know what I did this summer? I was thinking, Rogers. Just _thinking_. You should know that if I’da found _anything_ in April or May, he’d be six feet under. Do you understand that?”

Steve does not accept that. He would’ve gotten to Bucky first. No way he would’ve allowed that to happen. But he thinks about how bad he wanted Rumlow and Pierce dead and he says, “I think I do. But it’s Hydra – not Bucky – that killed your parents. If you can’t accept that, then I don’t think we can be friendly.”

Bitterly, Tony drags a hand over his table, bringing up a hologram. “Why do you think you’re here? Found this baby a few months back. I’ve been watching it.”

“What is it?”

“Maybe nothing.”

It’s a satellite image of…Maine? A series of images, actually. In the top corner: a long, complicated file name.

Steve watches the pictures fade into each other – showing trucks arriving and disappearing again – and he tries, desperately not get his hopes up. “But maybe something?”

“Maybe something,” Tony agrees.

Tony’s base is laid out over 300 acres and sits just outside Freedom, New Hampshire; a stone’s throw west of the Maine/New Hampshire border.

It’s entirely underground, with only a ramshackle barn sticking out of the soil; the rural American innocent tip of the iceberg. Tony’s monitoring has turned up: surging electrical use, comings and goings that indicate at least a 25-person full time staff, and a singular visit from a black car with tinted windows and DC plates.

This could be it. Steve feels so giddy that he has to stand up. He’s buzzing like he used to after a second cup of coffee; sweating like just before you throw up.

“I’ve gotta go,” Steve breathes. He’s got a suit upstairs and his shield is…at his apartment. So, he’ll ride back to Brooklyn on his bike, get the shield, then get the suit he’s got back there… No. He’ll get the stealth suit from his floor here, then take the bike back to Brooklyn for his shield, and then he can leave straight from there.

But the jet… Fuck. He’ll have to go to Brooklyn and get the shield, then come back to the Tower so he can take the quinjet to New Hampshire. Yeah, that’ll be way faster than the bike. Does he really need the shield though?

A pen flies into Steve’s view and hits the floor about a foot in front of his feet. He looks to Tony.

Tony says, “Is Sam in town? Cause last I heard, your other blowing up Nazis buddy was overseas.”

“Sam’s in DC,” Steve dismisses. “Can I borrow the quinjet? I’ll have it back by tonight.”

“You gonna be home by 10 sharp? I don’t know, I don’t think I like this boy you’re going to see.”

“Can I borrow it or not?”

If Tony says no, honestly, Steve will spend the ride back to Brooklyn mulling over how far he could get with it before Tony caught up to him in the suit.

“Just who do you think is inviting who here? This is my intel. I’m only sharing now because I’ve decided to be a good person and not kill your ol’ war buddy for his crimes.”

Steve didn’t consider that, even with his brain running a million miles a minute through every possible way he could get to Freedom, New Hampshire just a few minutes faster. He doesn’t care who is inviting who; couldn’t give less of a shit about who’s intel this is. He needs that quinjet.

“I appreciate you sharing this with me,” Steve says, “But you don’t have to come. I can handle this on my own.”

“Will you _get over_ yourself?”

Considering, Steve says, “Alright. Alright, Tony. Suit up.”

  
  


Tony must have some idea of what’s good for him because he’s ready to go quickly, hovering over Steve’s Brooklyn apartment just long enough for him to grab the shield. His neighbors are not going to be happy.

“I think this is our first solo mission, Cap,” he says, clattering away at the quinjet’s controls. He flips the stealth system on.

“It’s not a solo mission if we’re both on it,” Steve grumbles.

Tony gives Steve a look. “Are you gonna be this intolerable the entire time?”

Undiscouraged, Tony keeps up his chatter for the majority of the flight. Most of it’s friendly, so Steve gets by on a few occasional comments just to keep Tony going.

When they cross the New Hampshire border, Steve gets serious. That familiar mission-calm settles over him, edging out the jittery buzz at the oft-chance he might be going somewhere that Bucky once was.

“Tony, if we find him, we need to take precautions,” Steve says. When he goes out with Sam and Nat, there’s a firm plan in place, then a backup plan if that one goes to shit. Tony’s never been out to a Hydra base with him before. They’ve got no history and no procedures.

“Sure, Cap,” Tony says.

“If we find him,” Steve repeats, “we need to make at least one decoy stop before bringing him back to Brooklyn.”

Tony plays along. “There’s the warehouse upstate?”

“That works. We’ll have to land, act like we’re unloading whatever we found.”

Tony agrees to do it like he’s agreeing to give over any dinosaur eggs he happens upon.

  
  


The barn looms in their windshield. They’re lucky; only a thin layer of snow coats the grass. When they get close enough, Tony drops Steve off and goes to park the jet where the evergreens block out the engines’ gusts. But they don’t intend on staying stealth for long; they can’t, with Tony in tow.

Steve creeps along the tree line, narrating to Tony. “Two outside the back entrance. Another four at the front. Two, no three vehicles. The van could have explosives. Take out the fence for me too, will you?”

“I dunno, Cap. Might be funny to leave it up and make you climb.”

“I could jump over that,” Steve mutters.

Tony is audible to Steve before the guards react. They look up, start shooting blindly at him; it’s useless. Tony swoops over the barn, firing off beams that explode on impact but quickly fizzle out. Shock value only.

When the fireballs mushroom into smoke, the agents start to scatter like rats. Steve heads in.

He hurls the shield at the front man in a group of six, shoots another while he’s waiting for the rebound. That’s four left. Their bullets ping off the shield. Steve peeks out, aims his gun. A third drops.

One comes around beside him, slashes him in the forearm just before he can dodge it. Barely a scratch. Steve whips the guy in the chest with the shield. While the other two follow the shiny distraction, he shoots another point blank in the neck. The agent leaks red all over the dusting of snow. 

Down to one.

Steve feels heat brush his ear and the last guy flies back, the stomach of his uniform scorched black. “Watch it, Tony. Damn near took my ear off.”

“Oh, you’re a drama queen”

“Just find your own Nazis to shoot at,” Steve grumbles. He steps through the rubble of the back entrance. “And find me the stairs.”

“Northeast corner. Partially obstructed by a steel beam. Can’t miss it.”

A burly guy in tac gear starts firing at Steve from atop a pile of rubble left by the caving in roof; he ducks under the shield. Steve runs for the pile, jumps and flips over his head. He lands just behind him and flings the shield into his torso. He goes flying into the opposite wall.

Another appears on Steve’s 10. He ducks, sweeps the guy’s feet out from underneath him, kicks him in the chest.

He scans the northeast quarter and sure enough, there’s a large steel beam crossed over a dark square hole in the ground.

Tony covers Steve while he gets his fingers underneath the rusted beam. He strains, lifting it a few feet from the ground and shuffling over, then letting it fall on top of twisted metal. Chalky dust plooms up from the impact.

Steve slips into the stairwell, Tony in his ear complaining about the lack of targets.

“Scare some up here for me,” he says. “Don’t take ‘em all for yourself, Cap.”

At the base of the stairs, Steve peers left, then right. It’s empty, cast in murky green shadows; warmer and mustier than the freezing air upstairs. A failing light flickers, but buzzes back on. The smell is bleach mixed with mold. Faded pops of futile bullet fire come from the ceiling.

A man in a white lab coat comes barreling around the corner. When he sees Steve, he raises his hands and goes wide-eyed, like he’s looking at a ghost. Steve careens the shield down the narrow hall; it makes contact with his head before he can speak a word.

Steve gets to the first door and tries the handle. Locked. He kicks it open.

File cabinets line the walls, with a mess of machinery against the far corner. Another door to the left. “Got some files for you to scan, Tony.”

“Almost done up here,” Tony returns cheerfully.

Steve tries the next handle; it’s unlocked. When he swings it open, he knows what he’s looking at.

It’s the metal dentist’s chair they’ve seen just a few times before; crooked protruding arms with dark screens attached. Each arm has the waiting jaw of a thick metal handcuff.

Steve turns and races back into the hallway. The firing upstairs has quieted to the occasional pop. He sprints around the corner, where the doctor came from.

At the end of the hall: one more door. Steve runs for it so hard he can’t quite stop in time and slams up against it. Locked. He steps back and kicks out. It doesn’t give; reinforced, then.

On the second kick, it flies from its rusted hinges.

Inside: a short, stocky woman with medical gloved fingers wrapped around a sleek submachine gun; the smell of frost; and Bucky, sopping wet, in nothing but a pair of black shorts.

“Get away from him!” Steve orders, aiming.

She holds the gun towards Bucky and opens her mouth to speak to him, so Steve shoots her cleanly through an eye socket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *side eye emoji*


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bucky has entered the chat.

Bucky’s shivering blue lips mouth something, but no sound comes out. His hair looks nearly black in the dimmed lighting. It curls like wet inky vines against his pale face. Steve smooths them away with one hand as he struggles out of the suit with the other.

“One sec, okay, Bucky? We’re gonna find you some clothes.” He wriggles his arm free of his thickened sleeve.

Shoving the top part of the suit down to his waist, Steve grabs the back of his undershirt and yanks it off. He bunches it up and pulls it over Bucky’s head. Bucky just blinks, dazed as Steve picks up his wrists, maneuvering them into the T-shirt sleeves.

The unmistakable, heavy clang of Tony’s footsteps echoes down the stairs, then into the room.

“Oh my God, I did not sign up for this.” He’s stopped in the entry and watching Steve, who’s shirtless and kneeling on the concrete floor.

Steve pulls the undershirt down across Bucky’s stomach. He reminds Tony, “Yes, you did.”

“But I didn’t really think this was actually gonna happen!” Tony cries. “You spend all year looking for this guy and I get one solid lead and I find him. I am going to bring this up forever.”

“Shut up and look for a blanket or something,” Steve snaps. It makes Bucky flinch and wrap his arms around his stomach. “Sorry,” Steve whispers, against Tony clanking around the room and then out into the next one, muttering disbelieving things to himself.

The shirt Steve put over Bucky’s head is already darkening against his damp skin and Steve regrets putting it on so soon. There’s no way to be sure if Bucky comprehends what is going on, but Steve would bet good money that he’s miles away right now. He just _stares_ , like he doesn’t even notice how bad he’s shivering. Steve’s hindbrain tells him to wrap Bucky up, carry him out of here if that’s what it takes. He would, too; if Loki’s entire army descended from the clouds right now, well at least he’d save this one person. Before anything, above all, it’s Bucky.

Then, Tony comes back into the room with a pair of shoes and a sheet, and Steve realizes his hands are gripping Bucky’s upper arms. He pulls back and stands, haphazardly pulling his suit back over his chest. It’s scratchy against his skin without the barrier of the undershirt.

“You know, the best way to conserve body heat is skin to skin contact,” Tony offers. Scowling, Steve grabs the sheet out of his hands. He crouches down and wraps it firmly around Bucky’s shoulders.

“Can you stand up, Bucky?” Steve offers a hand.

Ignoring him, Bucky fumbles to get his hands on the ground and push himself to stand. As he forces his feet into the shoes, he stumbles, then catches himself before Steve can reach out to steady him.

Tony takes a clunky step back. “I’m going to get the jet,” he announces.

Because Tony is too dramatic to just use the stairs like he did earlier, he blasts a hole in the ceiling and steps underneath it. He knows damn well that Steve hates it when he compromises structural integrity while his teammates are several stories underground, so he immediately shoots out of the room.

At Steve’s side, Bucky lists, leaning vaguely on Steve’s shoulder. “Can you walk?” Steve asks, bracing a hand against Bucky’s back and guiding him towards the exit.

After he trips over his first few steps, Steve gets a firm arm around his waist. Steve had expected that Bucky wouldn’t want to be touched or grabbed, but it’s somehow worse when he doesn’t care one way or the other.

They make it to the main floor without anybody faceplanting, and Steve can hear the jet’s engine; Tony’s got it parked just feet from the perforated walls. Already, Buck’s getting steadier on his feet, so Steve tries releasing him.

“Watch your step,” Steve guides, stepping over rubble.

With great concentration, Bucky does the same. Distractedly, he reaches out with the hand he was born with, fingers open and inviting, and Steve takes it. The French must have felt like this during the war, when they took their most irreplaceable pieces and tucked them away where the Nazis couldn’t touch them.

Steve leads Bucky into the jet, where Tony’s facing backwards in his pilot chair. “Well, isn’t that adorable,” he gushes, closing the ramp on their heels.

“Get us out of here, Tony,” Steve orders.

With a sloppy salute, Tony swings around and puts them into a steep ascent.

“Here.” Steve motions to one of the seats in the main hold. “Sit down, Buck. I’m gonna get you a better blanket, okay?”

Bucky sits and releases Steve’s hand; and Steve is really, truly gone in the head because he misses it right away.

The jet is stocked with “blankets” that look more like aluminum foil than anything, but they always seem to do the trick when Bruce is coming down from Hulking out. So, Steve fetches one for Bucky, wrapping it around his shoulders. He clutches it tightly and sits absolutely still.

When Steve takes a step back and looks – really _looks_ – at Bucky, he feels _something_ surging up his chest and making him feel like he could burst into tears. Every cell of his heart is saturated with this wild, sparkling endearment.

This whole time, Steve’s been running on his own faith that Bucky was alive and would somehow come back to him because he couldn’t stand the alternative.

Here he is. All wrapped up in a crinkly foil blanket with his eyelashes frozen in little clumps, eyes flicking around wildly.

“This is our quinjet,” Steve explains. “We’re gonna make a quick stop and then we’re going back to New York. Do you need anything in the meantime?”

Bucky doesn’t acknowledge that he’s been spoken to.

Distantly, Tony comes back into the cargo hold; his footsteps are loud, even with the suit retracted into its little briefcase. Everything about Tony is in-your-face, and Steve realizes when Tony barges into his moment that it doesn’t bother him as much as it used to.

“Don’t you know that forty percent of your body heat leaves through your head?” Tony demands, reaching up and grabbing the helmet right off Steve’s head. “You can do it. I don’t wanna get bit.” He pushes the helmet into Steve’s hands.

Taking it, Steve carefully slides it onto Bucky’s head, brushing wet strands of hair from his forehead to keep them from getting smushed down against his eyes. “Sorry,” Steve whispers, when the cowl fits over Bucky’s face and makes him squint his eyes closed.

He blinks at them from behind the dark grey Captain America cowl; despite the stealth look of it, it’s still got an off-white “A” plastered across the forehead. The Commandos’ wing symbol is glossy black against Bucky’s temples. He’s precious, Steve thinks absurdly.

“If only Hydra could see him now,” Tony remarks with a finality. “Okay! We’ll be at the warehouse in T-minus 48 minutes. I’m thinking we’ll hang out for 15, then another 40-ish minutes to the Tower. You know, if you can get him into your suit – not like that! – he and I could go inside and get him a hot shower.”

“And then you’ll lend me a car to take him to Brooklyn.”

“Can we talk about this a minute? Let’s…” Tony grabs Steve’s elbow, tugging him towards the cockpit. Steve goes, even though he already knows there’s an argument bubbling up; same way as he used to be able to feel a screaming match coming on by the way Bucky took off his shoes after a long day.

Tony makes a move for the “close doors” button, but Steve blocks him. They stay open.

“I think he should stay at the Tower,” Tony announces.

Steve crosses his arms. “And why is that?”

“The Tower is secure,” Tony urges. “It’s got doctors, it’s got reinforced cells, if it comes to that.”

“Reinforced–? God, every time. _Every time_ I think you see things the right way.”

“What? It’s a skyscraper with chefs and a full medical team. There’s worse places to stay.”

“Oh, come on, Tony.”

“And there aren’t many places we can keep a deadly assassin!”

Crowding in the cockpit, Steve points a finger in Tony’s face. “You do not decide that. He is not your _thing_ to keep!”

“Gimme a break!” Tony shouts. A beat, and then, progressively calmer: “Will you? Jesus, you act like I’m one of them.” He runs a hand through his hair. Steve thinks: you were trying to kill him just like one of them. And maybe Tony sees the thought because he says, “I’m trying to help him. I think I’ve made that pretty fucking clear.”

Steve turns away from Tony, hands on his hips; breathes in and out. The sun beats through the windshield, like the weather is taunting them. There’s not a cloud in that crystalline blue sky.

Tony doesn’t know when to shut up. “Cap, Steve, listen to me. You know I’ve got a point. I’ve read the files. He’s gonna need a special diet and a serious psych eval. There’s a whole team of lawyers working out of the Tower. I’m talking ten– no, fifteen, minimum. But you hide him in Brooklyn and that comes out later, even they won’t be able to clear his name.”

Steve holds up a hand, silencing Tony. “Just, quiet a minute.” He rubs both hands together and clasps them under his chin.

When Buck’s ma died in ’38, he put Steve down as his next of kin. If, against all odds, Bucky had ended up unconscious or on life support, it would’ve been up to Steve to make the decisions on his behalf. Seventy five years later, that duty has improbably come floating back to the surface.

“Where would he stay? _If_ we brought him to the Tower.”

“Bruce’s safe room,” Tony says quickly. “Easy. No cells. It’s a normal bedroom, just a little…reinforced. Then, the lawyers get him off and when he’s a little more…you know, _with it_ , he goes totally free.”

“And if they can’t clear him?”

Tony shrugs a shoulder. “Then I swear on a Bible I have no idea where you two ran off to.”

Steve lets his hands fall. If he goes off the radar with Bucky now, he’ll cut off any chance of a normal, free life. Steve wouldn’t hesitate a second to give that up, but how can he take that all away from his nonconsenting best friend?

“Okay,” he says, quiet.

Tony stabs the button to lock in their final destination before Steve can change his mind; and Steve strides straight out of the cockpit before Tony can say something to piss him off again.

In the exact same spot and position he was left in, Bucky is sitting stock still and staring downwards. Wide eyed, he sneaks the quickest glance up at Steve.

“How you doin’, Buck? Warmer now?” He rummages around the storage compartments until he finds a pair of Bruce’s spare sweatpants. Steve hands them to Bucky, who stands and slips them on. They’re far too loose with the draw string undone, but Bucky quickly sits back down instead of tying it.

Bucky stopped shivering at some point while Steve and Tony were yelling at each other. At Steve’s request, he takes off the Captain America cowl and hands it back. “Ready,” he reports. It’s the first time he’s actually spoken; hoarse and quiet. It’s _Bucky_.

Steve doesn’t get it. “Ready?”

“Ready to comply.”

Oh, God, what in the ever-loving–

In the rush to correct him, Steve just makes it worse. “No,” he says, making Bucky flinch like he’s been smacked. Steve tries again, softer. “No, you don’t have to do that anymore. You… Nobody can tell you what to do anymore, okay? Not Hydra or even me. Understand?”

“Understand,” Bucky copies. But Steve doesn’t think he really does, and he can’t think of anything that would make him understand.

He sits back, listening to the sleek white noise of the jet’s dual engines.

  
  


“Bru-uce!” Tony calls out, strolling through the doors like he’s returning from work. “We need your room!”

They don’t run into Bruce, who Jarvis informs them is making dinner for himself in the communal kitchen. Nevertheless, Tony and Steve lead Bucky to the elevators and then to Bruce’s saferoom. It’s a few stories beneath the Avengers’ living space, deep in the belly of the Tower.

Bucky clutches the foil blanket around his shoulders, staring straight ahead as he walks. When Tony gets the door to the saferoom open, Bucky walks fluidly inside. He stands in the middle of the bare room with his eyes on the wood floor.

As Tony promised, it appears as a normal – though sparse – bedroom. It’s got an attached bathroom and some basic furniture. The walls are mostly bare, with a simple clock high up in one corner. Everything is bathed in a tranquil color scheme – eggshell lamp shades, smoky blue walls, and a fluffy chelsea grey rug.

Scattered around the room, there are a few signs that things aren’t quite run of the mill. A two-way cabinet door system to pass food to the room’s occupant. There’s two windows, but they’re too far from the outer walls of the Tower for it to be anything but simulated sunlight. The furniture is supposed to be wood, but it’s got that strange shine to it that means it’s been reinforced. Nothing Tony creates has ever stopped the Hulk, but it doesn’t stop him from trying.

“This is going to be your room for a little while,” Steve tells Bucky. “There’s a shower in there, if you wanna get cleaned off.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything. He watches the same spot on the floor that he’s had his eyes on since they entered the room.

“You hungry?” Tony tries. “We can UberEats you something.”

Bucky’s head whips to Tony, his eyes big and round. “Eat?”

They starved him, Sam had said; miles from here, horrified in the yellow light of their motel lamp.

Unaware, Tony goes on. “See: the problem is, you know those Nazis that were hanging around you for the past, I don’t know, 90 years? It seems like they only fed you slop. I’ll UberEats you something if you want, but it’s probably gonna come right back up.”

Steve turns to Tony. “Maybe some water and…go find out what he could eat,” he orders, and Tony slips out. He closes the door behind him; it’s a heavy, solid sound.

Then, they’re alone.

Just to do something, Steve checks the bathroom to make sure it’s fully stocked. He pulls out an empty drawer and tests the strength of the reinforcement by trying to pinch the edge of the drawer. It’s a real improvement from Tony’s initial designs.

When he turns back to Bucky, he’s still frozen in the same position, clutching his blanket. “Do you have any questions?” Steve asks.

“Questions,” Bucky repeats.

“Yes,” Steve says, “do you have any questions? I know this all must be very confusing for you.”

Bucky’s metal hand clenches around the foil. “You are…new buyers?” He asks.

Steve tries not to let his face change, but he knows he’s unsuccessful. He can’t help it; it hurts. “No, God no. We didn’t buy you. I’m your friend,” he blurts out. That probably doesn’t clear anything up for Bucky.

Bucky nods, curt as a salute. “Understood,” he reports.

It feels like time tilts on the simulated sunlight, speckled with dust particles as it comes though the Hulk-proof window. Steve has wanted this – Bucky, returned and whole – for so long. He started wanting it the moment Bucky slipped through his fingers in the Austrian Alps. Now that the moment is here, right in front of his stupid face, he has nothing to say.

“I’m…I guess I’ll let you get settled. If you need anything, just pick up the phone.” Steve goes to the nightstand, grabs the landline from its cradle and checks for the tone that means it’s working. “Do you know how to use one of these?”

Bucky’s eyes flit to the phone, then back down. “Yes.”

“Great. So, if you need anything, you press zero, but… Here, I’ll leave you my number.” He turns to write it down but realizes there’s no pens or paper. None in the drawer either, or on the surface of the dresser. Shit.

If Buck’s enhanced like he is, he might just be able to memorize it. “If I tell you my phone number, can you remember it?”

“Yes.”

Steve recites his number, and then does it again for good measure.

“If you don’t remember, you can just press zero and ask for Steve. Okay?”

Bucky just stands marble still, holding his blanket like a lifeline and staring at the floor.

“Okay,” Steve stalls. “Well. I’ll leave you be, then.” He can’t drum up any further reason to linger in the room, so he leaves, closing the door gently behind him. It thuds closed anyways, trapping Bucky behind it.


	11. Chapter 11

Steve goes straight for the observation room, where Tony and Bruce already are. The screens are blank.

“I thought you were getting him something to eat,” Steve accuses.

“I was! I did. The restaurant downstairs is cooking him up something easy to digest. But in the meantime, I figured Bruce should come meet our new roommate. I can’t believe I almost killed this guy.”

Tony and Bruce go back and forth for a minute, until it really starts to irritate Steve. Why are they still in here, anyways?

His annoyance must come across to Bruce, who urges Tony out of the room.

Alone, Steve watches the screen like it’s a season finale, or maybe the Super Bowl. Bucky sits on the floor with his fingers laced together in front of him, legs outstretched. He’s folded up the foil blanket to hold under his arm. There are books for him to read and a deck of cards, if he wanted them; but he doesn’t seem to.

The food door slides open, making Bucky jump at the sound.

He sits absolutely still for about a minute before getting up and deliberately walking towards the food cabinet. He retrieves the plate and closes the door gently. With the plate in hand and the foil still under his arm, Bucky goes right back to his little spot and sits down, legs crossed. The plate is on the ground in front of him as he bends over to pick up the buttered toast. It gets torn into bite-sized pieces, which Bucky picks up one by one and chews carefully.

It’s the saddest thing Steve has seen in his life. He picks up his phone and scrolls through his 10 or so contacts until he gets to Tony.

Tony answers on the third ring. “What can I do for ya, bff?”

“I’d like a table and chairs brought into Bucky’s room.”

Tony snicks at him from the other side. “First, it’s ‘Tony look for my dead bff’s body’ and then it’s ‘Tony help me take down a Nazi organization’ and now this. What’s next, Cap?”

“Can you just do it, Tony,” Steve says simply.

Tony sighs. “I’ll get our new murderous friend his dining set. Oh, also. We have a meeting tomorrow with the therapist who’s gonna evaluate him. Actually, you have a meeting with the therapist. I’m just the ATM.”

When Tony hangs up, Steve goes back to watching the screen.

Bucky finishes his first piece of toast and then he promptly rushes to the bathroom. Steve gets up and skids down the hall, barging into Bucky’s room before belatedly realizing that he probably should have knocked.

Bucky stumbles out of the bathroom and halts in the doorway. His chest rises and falls quickly.

Steve asks, “Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

He is so clearly not okay. This entire situation is utterly not okay. “Do you want–…I know they fed you mostly…shakes, right? Would you rather have something like that? Maybe it’d be better on your stomach.”

Bucky gives him nothing.

“I think this food is making you sick because you haven’t been eating a lot of solid foods,” Steve tries. “I’m sorry about that. Tony got this stuff from the restaurant downstairs. Can I make you a protein shake instead?”

To the floor, Bucky says, “Yes.”

  
  


When Steve goes to meet the therapist, he finds Tony loitering in the hallway. Through the glass paneled walls of the conference room, he can see a few people he recognizes from HR. Nat should have landed a few hours ago, but she’s not here. There’s an unfamiliar woman seated with her back to him and across from her, two men in suits.

Steve pulls Tony aside. “Why are the lawyers here already?”

“Okay,” Tony says, holding up his hands, “that was very accusatory.”

“Tony, why are the lawyers here? You said he was getting a psych eval.”

“Um, why would the lawyers not be here? Have you forgotten that your boy killed a bunch of people? When you commit a crime, you get a lawyer, and when you have money – you’re welcome – you get lawyer _s_.”

“That wasn’t him.”

“Cap, I’m not sure a judge is gonna buy that.”

“What are you talking about? We’ve got all the files, there’s– you’ve seen the files, Tony. There’s proof that he didn’t have a choice.”

“I don’t know what I’m talking about, and neither do you. I’ve got an idea! We should find someone who does, maybe someone who’s gone to school for this sort of thing. I think those guys are called…oh, wait a second, those are lawyers!”

Tony holds the door open, ushering Steve inside. “Come on, now, let’s go ask them these million-dollar questions.”

Once inside, Tony turns on his grand CEO persona, standing in front of the table. “Thank you all for coming! We are gathered here today to figure out what the fuck to do about the assassin downstairs, and I want everyone to remember: you all signed NDAs. And, not to accuse, but nobody knows about him but the people in this room. So, if there’s a leak, well, it’s not going to be too hard to figure it out.” He points at Steve. “Cap? You have anything to add?”

“No, Tony.”

“Great addition!” God, he’s so goddamned obnoxious. “Well, I guess someone who actually knows what they’re talking about can take it away. Dr. Therapist Who Knows Sam?”

The therapist introduces herself as Dr. Maribel Raza, who works with the VA and has experience with POWs and complex PTSD. She’s the one who is going to be evaluating Bucky.

Then, they have to go around the table like it’s the first day of school. Yes, I’m Captain Steve Rogers. Why am I here? Oh, I happen to be in love with the guy we’re all here to meet about.

Except he doesn’t say that. Steve gives a very typical introduction – unlike Tony, who scoffs and insists that everyone knows who he is.

“The goal of this initial session is just to gauge his mental capacity, make sure he understands where he is and why,” Dr. Raza explains. “I’d also like to get some preliminary information about what he may remember before coming to stay here.”

One of the lawyers – Elliott Cardozo – jumps in. “Sergeant Barnes’ mental state is going to become extremely important if this does go to trial. The files that were recovered are very helpful. However, until we’re sure that the U.S. Attorney isn’t going to prosecute, we need to document as much as possible.”

Raza nods along. “I understand how important it may be to have documentation, so I’ll talk with him about having a camera in the room. But if he doesn’t want it, or if it seems like he cannot consent, then I can’t in good faith have it on.”

“There are already cameras in the room,” Tony points out.

“I know you’ve installed a stealth camera,” Raza says. “I would feel better if we brought in a physical tripod. It gives him a clear representation of what he’s consenting to.”

“Of course,” the other lawyer says. He’d introduced himself as Simon Shae. He talks about reality testing and something called McNaghten’s Rule. If they want to argue insanity, then they need Buck to be mentally on some other planet. But if they want to fight the prima facie case, then Bucky can’t have had purpose to kill and if he didn’t reflect on the murders, then there’s no premeditation. Steve’s head is spinning but when he glances at the clock, it’s not even been twenty minutes.

Hoooly hell he doesn’t know how he’s going to sit here and listen to these people talk around and around for the next few months. Or – God forbid – years, if it goes to trial.

When they finally wrap up, Tony – who has been texting for a while now– waves a hand in a vague circle. “You’re gonna send all this to us and the rest of the legal team, right?”

“Of course, Mr. Stark,” Cardozo says.

It’s decided that Dr. Raza will go interview Bucky – maybe recorded, maybe not – and they’ll give that information to the lawyers, who are going to see if Bucky’s insane or if he could have put reflection and calculation into the killings.

  
  


Steve goes to the observation room, finds Natasha there. “How was your meeting?” She asks sweetly.

Steve just shakes his head and plops down next to her. She gives him her coffee; no, one of her coffees. “What is this?”

“A grande chai tea with half sugar.”

He sips it; it’s good. Nat knows him well.

On the screen, Dr. Raza enters the room with a glass of water in each hand. Behind her is Shae, carrying a tripod camera. He places it near the table and makes a quick exit.

“Hello James,” she says warmly, setting down the glasses.

Bucky just stares at her – he’s still clutching that damn foil blanket they gave him yesterday. He stashes it in his lap as she sits down at the table.

“I’m Maribel Raza, but you can call me Maribel.” Explaining why she’s there, she slides one water to Bucky’s side of the table and takes a sip from the one she keeps for herself. “I’ve brought some water for you. If you feel thirsty at any point, you can drink some.”

Bucky doesn’t even look at the water while Dr. Raza gets a few pieces of paper out, organizing them for a moment.

“Can I call you James, or do you prefer another name?” The doctor asks, and then she waits.

Eventually, he gives in. “Bucky.”

“Okay. Thank you, Bucky.” Dr. Raza goes through some introductions and asks him a few questions. How things have been since he arrived here; how he feels today. She has a rehearsed little talk about doctor/patient confidentiality and explains the reason for the tripod.

“What all that being said,” Dr. Raza finishes, “are you okay with the camera being on?”

“Okay,” Bucky replies.

When she reaches to switch it on, she hesitates. “Bucky, can you do me a favor? I’d like you to explain to me what it means to not be okay with something.”

“That I…want it to be off.”

“Right,” Dr. Raza agrees. “If you change your mind about the camera, you can tell me and I’ll leave it off, no questions asked. There will not be any consequences. Understand?”  
“Understand,” Bucky parrots. His thumb runs over the foil blanket in his lap.

At first, it seems like she’s testing his intelligence. She has Bucky count by sevens and read a passage out loud. Then, she brings out a stack of pictures, has him arrange them into categories – animals, food, methods of transportation – and explain his grouping methods. Nobody wanted to give Bucky a pen, so Raza hands him a small whiteboard with a marker instead, which seems to perplex him.

She shows him a simple geometric cube. “I’d like you to copy this figure here.”

Bucky does, and then – pointedly, without being asked – he draws three more variations; rotated, upside down, and inverted.

That gets Steve. He chuckles, drawing Natasha’s bewildered attention. Bucky’s had his memory wiped out and been held captive for 70 fucking years and he’s still managing to say: do you think I’m an idiot?

After that, the evaluation starts to go off the rails. Bucky can’t tell Raza the season, the year, or the current president. In fact, he can’t name any president.

“Do we know where we are right now?” Raza asks gently.

Bucky seems unconcerned with his own lack of understanding. “America?”

“That’s right,” she says. “How do you know that?”

“The voices.”

Steve’s immediately thinking they might have a real problem on their hands, but Raza just asks Bucky to clarify. He reports, “Your voice. Northeastern United States. Spent extended time in the Southern region.”

“I was raised near Atlanta,” she confirms.

As they get into his memories, Bucky is eerily open. He tells her straight that he was never a child and cannot be killed. Matter-of-factly, he admits that he once strangled a doctor he had. (“How did you feel when you did that?” gets a shrug and then, “Nothing.”) The Winter Soldier had no secrets, no privacy; anything and everything Bucky knows comes tumbling right out of his mouth, into the waiting hands of complete strangers. Steve wants to grab him and run.

She’s a _therapist_ , he reminds himself.

“Let’s talk about the last thing you remember, before coming here,” Dr. Raza suggests. “Can you tell me what that was?”

“I went into the cryo.”

“How did you feel then, when you went into the cryo chamber?”

“Cold.”

“Okay, your body felt cold. Can you remember how you felt inside?”

“It was fine,” Bucky says.

Dr. Raza switches tactics, having been unsuccessful a few times now in getting him to identify emotions. “Okay, and what’s the next thing you can remember? Right after the memory of going into cyro?”

“I woke up.”

“Mm hmm. What do you remember about waking up?” When Bucky plays dumb, she asks a few more pointed questions, forcing him to recall as many details as possible. She acts like every word that comes out of Bucky’s mouth has a reason for being there. Maybe she’s right.

“Were you alone?”

“Steve and Tony were there.”

“Right. And what would you say your relationship is with Steve and Tony? How do you know them?”

Steve knows what’s coming, but still. _Still_.

“Handlers,” Bucky says, and Steve slips a little, like some piece of him actually didn’t know it was coming at all.

Raza nods thoughtfully. “Ah. Have they told you that they’re your handlers?”

“No.”

“What have they said about it?”

Bucky shrugs, but she pushes him for his best guess. “Steve says he’s not a buyer,” he recites.

“Okay. So, what makes you think that they’re buyers or handlers?” Raza’s got a way of asking questions like they’re flat. There are no hints that Steve can detect that could give away how she feels about what she’s asking. That’s probably the point, as to not give Bucky any clues about how he’s supposed to answer.

Bucky claims not to know. She asks if she’s also a handler, to which he tells her that she’s a doctor.

“Well, how can you tell a buyer or a handler from a doctor, for example?”

Bucky concentrates on the table’s surface, his brow all scrunched up. “They have different jobs.” Then, after she’s asked him what sort of things, “Doctors ask questions about the body. Handlers do the missions and the punishments.”

“Alright, and has either Steve or Tony done anything like that?”

Though Bucky’s been sitting still for the entire thirty three minutes they’ve been talking, he suddenly goes unnaturally solid, like he’s not even breathing. “No?” He says carefully. Bucky is watching her every movement like a hawk, instead of staring down at the table like he’s been doing.

“Are you worried about those things happening here?”

He guesses, “Yes?”

“Okay. You can be honest with me, Bucky. Remember you will not be punished here, but if you’re still worried about it, that’s completely normal. I won’t be upset with you, no matter how you answer my questions,” Raza explains, earning a blank stare. He’s so goddamn still, save for the visible pumping of his heart through his chest.

She switches the camera off, endlessly calm in the face of Bucky’s near-hyperventilating. “Let’s take a little break.” Demonstrating, she says, “Can you take a deep breath for me? Breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth.”

Bucky’s clenched fists stay glued to the tabletop. He takes exactly one breath the way Raza instructed, and then his hands shake bad enough for the camera to pick up. When Dr. Raza folds her own hands on the table, he flinches. Immediately, Bucky overcorrects, sliding his hands a touch closer to hers, like an offering.

“Bucky, I'd like you to tell me how I can help you best. Would you like to me stay and sit with you, or would you like to be alone?”

He shakes his head like he’s already damned, lets his hair fall in front of his face. After giving him a count of 10, Raza offers, “Just focus on your breathing and answer me when you’re ready.”

When he stays silent, she waits; but she doesn’t watch him. Instead, leans back from the table and averts her eyes. Steve likes her for that. It’s simple: treating Bucky with respect is the fast track to Steve’s good side.

Eventually, Bucky says, “Be alone?

“Okay, I’ll leave. Thank you,” Dr. Raza says, and she takes the tripod and slips out the door.

As soon as the door shuts, Bucky’s demeanor changes entirely. His head snaps to the exit; he peers around at it like someone else might come in. When he stands, Steve thinks he might try the handle, but Bucky settles on the floor instead. He folds his trembling hands, pressing bent thumbs into his lips like a prayer.

From behind Steve, Natasha’s voice shakes his focus. “You know, it’s not good for your eyes to be that close to the screen.”

As if the automatic part of Steve’s brain thought he might reach right through and touch Bucky, Steve’s hand has made its way to the little, curled up picture of him.

Blushing, Steve pulls back just as Dr. Raza steps into the room. She gives Steve and Natasha a short recap of her conversation with Bucky, even though they both watched it live.

Steve straightens up. “I’d like to talk to him.”

“You will have ample opportunity to talk with him, Captain Rogers, I assure you. But right now, let’s give him some space. He became quite anxious during our talk and my presence was only distressing him further, so we need to let him calm himself down.”

“Then I’ll wait right here until he calms down.”

Dr. Raza considers him. “I cannot stop you from going in there. I’d ask you to consider his statements about you being his handler. We all know that you would never hurt him, but he specifically identified you and Mr. Stark as the two people who he believes could administer punishments. For that reason, I don’t think that you visiting him right now would be helpful.”

“Steve,” Natasha says, “Jarvis texted you that the lawyers are waiting on you to watch the video.” Steve grabs his phone out of her hand.

What the hell did he do? How could he possibly have fucked up so badly, that Bucky thinks that stuff of him? Steve plays back every tiny stupid thing he’s done since finding Bucky, but he drums up nothing.

Stubbornly, he sits in the observation room until Bucky visibly relaxes.

Leaving Raza to keep an eye on Bucky – and Natasha to keep an eye on Raza – Steve goes back to the conference room. Tony has disappeared, so everyone starts deferring to Steve, like he’s suddenly in charge of this meeting.

After the video of Bucky’s evaluation finishes, Cardozo clasps his hands on the table. “This is good news, even if it doesn’t feel like it. If you remember, the prosecution has the burden of proof. That means that if they want to go for first degree murder, they will have to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that Sergeant Barnes had purpose to kill. Recall that purpose to kill – in this context – means that he reflected and calculated upon the decision to end life. And not just that he did it, but that they can prove it.

Based on the assessment performed by Dr. Raza this afternoon, I think we already have the basis for a good argument that he could not have possessed the mental capacity to reflect upon his decisions.”

“So,” Steve says, “you like our odds. I mean, if he does go to trial?”

“It’s very early in the process, and no trial is ever set in stone,” says Shae. “Marcia Clark could tell you that. But I like our arguments.”

Cardozo breaks in. “Also, we have the right to a jury trial. Contrary to popular belief, juries are not easier to manipulate or convince than a judge. They’re even more fair, in many instances. But juries tend to react to different tactics.” He gives a small smile, respectfully pleased. “And Captain Rogers, in terms of jury evidence, that video is gold.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is brought to you by my 1L crim professor and my school’s subscription to Westlaw Edge. IANAL but I do spend a lot of time around them (and yes, that is a real acronym)  
> And because I spend so much time around/learning from lawyers: nothing in this story should be taken as an accurate description of the law or psychological methods. don't get your legal advice from a captain america fanfiction my friends


	12. Chapter 12

After pestering from the other Avengers, Steve gives in and allows one rule: he won’t go into Bucky’s room unless someone is in the observation room. It’s completely unnecessary, as far as Steve is concerned, but it lets him jump past a long and drawn out argument. He’ll circumvent the rule later if needed; from the way Natasha watches him leave the discussion, she knows this, too.

Bucky is sitting on the floor with his back against the bed, legs curled up in front of him.

Dumbly, Steve gives a little wave. “Hi, Bucky.” Why is he doing this. It’s just Bucky.

Getting up from the floor, Bucky mechanically sits down at the table. He sets his hands out in loose fists and looks up at Steve’s chest, then vaguely watches the opposite wall.

Steve takes the other seat and puts the envelope on the table; he suddenly feels stupid for even bringing it. Or, maybe he just feels stupid in general.

He tries anyways. “I guess I didn’t…introduce myself before. I’m Steve. We’re friends. I mean, I knew you. Before.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything.

“Is it okay if I call you Bucky?” Steve asks.

“Yes,” Buck says, without raising his eyes.

“Okay. Thanks.”

Even after seeing Bucky talk to Dr. Raza on the cameras, it’s eerie how unmoving he is; not just his body, but his facial expressions, too. He became more reserved during the war, no doubt. But he’s so blank now, there’s no telling what’s going on in his head.

Steve lifts the envelope to show Bucky, then slides it across the table. “I brought you some old pictures. Thought they might help jog some memories. You don’t have to look at them all right now, you can–”

He cuts off because Bucky immediately opens the envelope and starts removing the photos.

One by one, Bucky spreads them out on the table. He makes little rows of three until he’s got a neat square of the six pictures Steve brought. They’re all copies of wartime photos of the Commandos, a few serious shots made for the press and some more casual ones taken by the guys themselves.

Bucky glances at Steve’s chin. “Your friends?”

That’s not really what Steve hoped he’d get out of it, but… “Yeah.”

Bucky points up at the camera hidden in the screw in his air vent. “Your friends?”

“Yes.” Steve clasps his hands loosely on the table, takes a deep breath. “Do you know who I am?”

The pictures get carefully shuffled around. Bucky points to one featuring himself, Steve, and Morita, smiling for the camera with a very blurry Dugan in the background. Falsworth took that one while they were camping in France; they were given that camera to take a few “action” shots for the press, but Falsworth kept egging them on to take a normal one until they finally gave in and posed for him.

Bucky taps Steve’s grinning face.

“That’s me,” Steve confirms. Carefully, he reaches across the table and points out the black and white Bucky in the picture. “And that’s you.”

Disinterested, Bucky flips it face down against the tabletop.

  
  


It’s like this: in the legal world, a defendant – and that’s what Bucky is, the defense – can either point out a flaw in the prosecution’s case, or they can bring up an affirmative defense. They can either say, “he didn’t do it” or they can say, “well, he did it, but…” Really, they’re going to do both and hope that at least one sticks with the jury. _If_ that’s what it comes down to.

Under the umbrella of Affirmative Defenses, they’ve got a few options, depending on the crime – duress, insanity, diminished capacity – but all that’ll get them is Bucky being sent to a mental facility instead of a prison. So, better to fight the prosecution’s case and win the thing outright, Steve thinks.

He gets all this from the email that the SI lawyers send him, so he’s really not sure why he had to be in that meeting yesterday.

The email is long, with dozens of recipients and an attached pdf file for even more reading material. _Do not speak to any member of law enforcement. If you are approached by law enforcement or anyone from the U.S. Attorney’s office, call Elliott Cardozo or Simon Shae at their personal numbers immediately._ Then, further down: _Any person who intends to have contact with Sergeant Barnes MUST sign an NDA and submit a copy to Stark Industries HR. **This applies to all Avengers team members, including those who reside in Avengers Tower. If you have not signed your NDA, you are not to have any contact with Sergeant Barnes.**_

Steve wonders which one of his teammates inspired that bolded section.

Before the U.S Attorney even knows that Bucky is staying at the Tower, the SI lawyers are already coming up with all sorts of arguments. Mainly, that 1) whatever court the prosecutor chooses, it’s not the best one – because Bucky committed all sorts of crimes all around the world, they’ve got quite a few choices for jurisdiction – and 2) Bucky is not competent to stand trial right now because he cannot assist his lawyers.

This is what Cardozo and Shae appear to spend their days doing; making up arguments that they might possibly have to use years from now.

In the end, the best and brightest minds from the SI legal army decide that the plan is: they’ll come clean about Bucky being confined at the Tower. That will let the lawyers start to negotiate with the U.S. Attorney's office, which will start investigating Bucky. Then, they’re going to start hinting at all these issues before the USA can even get off the ground. That just lets the USA know that they’re going to have tons and tons of work ahead of them if they decide to try and have Bucky charged. 

If they do decide that they want to go ahead with things, then the case goes before a grand jury. Grand juries almost always decide to charge a defendant - because the defense has no chance to argue their side - so they will probably charge Bucky; and then...well, then both sides will have at least a year or so for _even more_ trial preparations. And Steve, Cardozo, and Shae are going to get awfully tired of each other.

For now, Tony and Steve plan some press conferences and media appearances, which will hopefully get the public on their side.

After all, the lawyers say, the prosecutor has a lot of discretion on whether to present the case to a grand jury. They don’t want to waste their time on a lengthy, unnecessary, unpopular trial that they’re only going to lose. It’s Steve’s job to ensure the public believes that’s all their tax dollars will go towards if they prosecute Bucky.

  
  


Pepper leads the charge, heels click clacking out to the podium. All Steve and Tony have to do is follow her out and sit at the table in front of their microphones. The way Pepper explains the situation – they found Bucky, the base was in the Northeastern US, their lawyers are talking to the U.S. Attorney's office – is crisp and direct; she makes the chaos sound clean.

At the end of her announcement, the reporters are buzzing for their shot. One of them asks if Steve and Tony will be answering questions. Pepper says they will.

Tony interrupts, his chin in his hand; bored. “But Cap and I don’t wanna be here, so you better be quick.”

The first question comes from a man with a neat salt and pepper beard and an “NBC” paper stuck to his chair. “Captain Rogers, you’ve been largely silent since the Winter Soldier’s identity was revealed by Ms. Romanoff. What do you have to say on the matter? Why the silence?”

Tony leans into his mic. “That was, like, three questions.”

“It was two, Mr. Stark.”

“I said ‘like’ three. That could be two, could be four.”

Steve cuts in. “It’s good to have him back. That’s all I have to say for now.”

NBC is ready. “Do you think he deserves to be prosecuted?”

“No,” Steve says; final.

Next, CNN; a young woman with a baby blue headband. “Ms. Potts, you mentioned that your team is awaiting word from U.S. Attorney Bennet about a possible trial. When do you expect to hear back?”

“It could be a few weeks,” Pepper explains. “We’re encouraging them to really take their time, so there’s no rush.”

CNN looks to Steve. “Captain Rogers, do you have anything to say to the USA’s office?”

“I’ve told them everything I care to say.”

It goes like that for a while longer as they cycle through a few more news stations. Pepper cuts it off quickly though, as promised. After they get off the stage, Tony gripes about not getting any questions from the press. But when Pepper reminds them that they have a meeting with the lawyers, Tony abruptly becomes busy and makes a quick exit.

  
  


Part of the SI legal team’s plan is to collect materials that make Bucky sympathetic, and that gives Steve something else to do.

“The public already knows you,” Cardozo explains. “They trust you. They know about your connection with Sergeant Barnes. That gives us a powerful tool. If you would be willing to give us some video of your meetings with him, I think it could go over great with a jury.”

“I thought you said that the jurors weren’t supposed to know anything about me and Bucky,” Steve says. They’ve brought this up several times; impartial jurors.

“I said that both sides would try to achieve that. Under typical circumstances, any prospective juror who knew of the parties would be dismissed right away. But here, that’s just not going to be realistic. If it goes to trial, the jurors will have very little knowledge of you and Barnes, but they’re going to know something.”

“What do you want me to do?”

They claim they don’t want him to do anything; just send over recordings of him and Bucky. “If we told you what to do, it would be self-defeating,” Shae says. “Just do what you would usually do and then if it goes alright, consider letting us have a look.”

Bucky’s room is constantly monitored, but the recordings aren’t usually kept longer than 24 hours; or, that’s what Tony says. Jarvis says the same and Steve thinks he trusts the AI more.

Steve gives tentative permission – subject to Bucky’s approval – to store the footage of Bucky’s room from the time he enters until the time he leaves. He tells Bucky this because it wouldn’t be right not to, but Buck doesn’t seem to care.

“That’s okay with you?” Steve asks. He’s teaching Bucky to play blackjack again. He lets Bucky be the dealer because he always preferred it, back in the day.

“Yes.”

Steve shuffles the cards and slides the stack towards Bucky. “Do you have any questions?”

Bucky flips over Steve’s first card; a seven. “Where is Alex?”

Alex– ? Oh, God, does he mean… “Alexander Pierce?”

“My handler, before.” Bucky gets a jack.

“He’s dead.” Steve taps the table and gets a five.

Bucky doesn’t seem surprised, casually flipping over a three for himself. “You killed him?”

“My friend did.”

It occurs to Steve that Bucky might not have wanted Pierce dead – Stockholm Syndrome, they said – so he tries to explain. “He was an evil person, Bucky. He…he did terrible things to you, and a lot of other people, too.”

Bucky nods.

“You understand, right? You’re safe from him now.”

“Understand.”

When Steve taps the table again, Bucky flips a card. A king.

“You win,” Steve concedes.

Bucky turns over another card for himself, even though Steve’s already lost. Lucky number seven.

  
  


Even with all the Winter Soldier files they’ve collected, Bucky’s physiology remains largely a mystery. Hydra didn’t care about his metabolism or how much the metal arm might weigh, as long as he could run his missions. The Tower’s doctors and chefs have to rely on Steve’s biometrics, assuming Bucky’s serum is similar enough.

That doesn’t satisfy Tony, who wants to know exacts. Steve tells him to drop it for the time being, but he goes over Steve’s head and takes scans of Bucky’s metal arm anyways. Sam, who goes to check out the observation room for the first time and happens upon the scene, gives Tony up.

“Manchurian Candidate and I had a nice little chat,” Tony explains. “He said I could scan the arm. We took out a few trackers. It’s not your arm, is it? So, back off.”

“Wait,” Steve says. “Trackers?”

“Sure. There was a tracker in the metal arm, so I figured better scan the rest of him. Found one inside each arm and one behind the knee. He wanted them out ASAP. Don’t think he wants Hydra to come knocking any more than the rest of us.”

Sam crosses his arms. “Did it occur to you that he might be agreeing because he wants to avoid punishment?”

“You guys act like he’s a child or something,” Tony scoffs. “He understood perfectly fine. It took two minutes and he didn’t care.”

“He thinks you’re his handler!” Steve explodes.

“Right back atcha, Cap.” Tony’s tone is acidic. “That doesn’t stop you from chatting him up.”

“Yeah, I talk with him, not cut him open. You performed an unauthorized medical procedure, Tony, don’t kid yourself.”

Tony ignores him, tapping at his flattop touch computer. He waits for some of the tension to fizzle out before he speaks again. “Do you wanna see the results or not?”

“I want you to apologize to him.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Steve doesn’t give. “I mean it.”

Tony groans, tipping his head to the ceiling. He swivels in his chair and Steve can feel Sam looking back and forth between them, but he waits and lets the silence drag. Tony hates peace and quiet.

“I’ll go in and have a little chat with him about consent and no means no. But you’re not watching me in that Dharma Station room.”

So, Tony will give an almost-apology as long as nobody is around to see him do it. “Okay,” Steve says. “Thank you, Tony. I appreciate that.”

"Oh, shut up, Cap."

The three of them call Bruce down to decipher the scans; might as well, now that Tony’s already gone and taken the scans without a lick of meaningful consent.

Based on the scans, Bucky’s metal arm is fused into the bones. Bruce points to a spot where Jarvis’ key shows that the bones are metal. “Here, the AC joint has been entirely replaced. It goes in as deep as the spinal cord, and his trapezius – here – has been reconstructed.”

“Reconstructed how?” Steve asks.

“I’m not sure exactly how, but presumably to allow his shoulder to support the weight of the arm. This thing’s heavy. Even if we put it on you, Steve, it’d rip your levator scapulae right out.”

Steve winces at the mental image.

“Is it hurting him?” Sam asks.

“I’m not sure of that either,” Bruce admits. “But I’d think it has to be causing some chronic pain. This wasn’t meant for comfort, it’s not pretty or well-designed. This is…it’s a hack job.”

Tony stands abruptly and leaves the room without a word.

  
  


After quietly asking Jarvis to notify him when Tony leaves Bucky's room, Steve goes down there himself. When they finish up another game of rummy, he gestures to Bucky’s left arm. “Can you feel anything with that one?”

Bucky stares at Steve, then down at his arm, like he’s never considered the question before. His handlers probably didn’t need to ask; they would have known more about his body than he did.

“Temperature and…” He presses his thumb and index finger together. Pressure.

“Does it hurt?”

Bucky nods; no hesitation there.

Steve figured as much, but he still stutters a little with the need to _fix_. “Okay. Do you want us to see if we can take it off? Maybe Tony could make it lighter. You know, he took those scans, so he could probably make a better one. He’s real good with that kind of thing.”

Bucky never interrupts, waiting patiently for Steve to get his question out. Then: “Why a new one?”

“You said this one hurt you.”

Bucky shakes his head. “No,” he corrects, “you.”

“What?”

He flexes his metal hand, giving Steve a good look at the rippling plates. “It hurts you,” Bucky says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To make up for my slacking on responding to comments, here's a quote from the very real Supreme Court Justice Benjamin Cardozo (probably my favorite legal writer ever): "In truth, I am nothing but a plodding mediocrity--please observe, a plodding mediocrity--for a mere mediocrity does not go very far, but a plodding one gets quite a distance."


	13. Chapter 13

During Bucky’s first few days at the Tower, he’s sick so often that they have to stop giving him solid foods altogether; he can’t even keep down unbuttered toast. Anything that they put into the room, he will eat, so the doctors have to give him only what they believe he can stomach. Other than eating, Bucky doesn’t do anything to care for himself; he lets his hair get greasy and doesn’t brush his teeth once, ignoring the fully stocked bathroom.

Steve thought that they were supposed to be avoiding bossing Bucky around, but Dr. Raza claims that some rules are necessary. The cameras are never on anymore when she talks with Bucky, but they activate for a few minutes, just so they can get footage of her bringing a phone into the room.

“This is for you,” she explains. “But it comes with a rule. Are you ready to hear it?”

Bucky nods, watching Raza slide the phone across the table towards him.

First, she runs through a series of questions confirming that Bucky remembers being shown the bathroom and all its amenities, as well as how he’s supposed to use them. She asks him why he hasn’t.

“Handlers do that,” Bucky claims.

“No, we don’t have handlers here,” she gently corrects. Dr. Raza unlocks the phone and shows him something on the screen. “Here, you can see that I’ve set an alarm. Every night at 8pm, this will make a sound. When it does that, you should brush your teeth and take a shower or a bath.”

“That’s the rule?”

“Yes, that’s the rule. There aren’t any punishments, remember. But I would like you to try to follow the rule anyways. Will you do that please?”

Bucky pokes at his new phone, moving it a few centimeters. “Okay,” he agrees.

The cameras go off.

Steve sends that snippet to the lawyers, and later that day, they come back and inform him that he is now a case consultant. He’s rewarded with a new meeting notification. Great.

Bucky is supposed to wash his hair every three days, but without the phone alarm and the incentive of following a rule, he doesn’t really do it. The phone won’t let them set an alarm for every three days, so Raza sets a weekly one instead. It’s not a good idea for Steve to remind him himself, she says, since Bucky still seems to think he’s a handler. A phone alarm is an automatic reminder about what Bucky should do; a person suggesting he wash his hair is an order.

Steve fucking hates the whole situation, hates that he can’t come up with an alternative. It’s just that Buck doesn’t respond to anything but orders. Suggest something, show him how to do it for himself, and he still won’t. But say, “go do this,” and it gets done right away.

Even the phone alarms’ efficiency doesn’t last long. Bucky starts testing them. The alarm goes off one night while Steve is watching from the observation room. Bucky turns it off, but instead of going for the bathroom, he sits down in the middle of the room with his legs crisscross. He stares up at the camera for a while, waiting.

Of course, nothing happens. Steve wants to go in and see what’s keeping him, but Raza already went through all the reasons why that would be Unhelpful.

So, Bucky doesn’t shower or brush his teeth that night.

  
  


When the Avengers have their first real team meeting about Bucky, Steve doesn’t speak much; he doesn’t know what they should do, but he doesn’t like any of his teammates’ suggestions either. Some part of him wishes he’d taken Buck to Brooklyn, though he can’t imagine what he would’ve been doing without Raza and the doctors’ meticulously curated, calorie-counted meal plans.

The others – namely Tony and Natasha – seem to be full of violently clashing ideas. Natasha wants all the surveillance they can get; Jarvis, cameras, a constant lookout watching over visits to Bucky’s room.

On the other hand, Tony is full of blasé assurances. Despite all his arguing on the way back from New Hampshire, he might just turn Bucky loose if it was up to him.

Natasha brings up Bucky’s apparent shower strike.

“He’s fine,” Tony cries. “Sure, he’s a little…weird. But who cares? Who among us hasn’t gone a day or two without a shower? Don’t lie, Romanoff!”

Simply, Natasha says, “If we can’t trust him to look after himself, then we can’t trust him with anything else either.”

“Again, this is a grown man we’re talking about. If you ask me, you’re all weird for knowing when he showers, anyways.”

Steve interjects. “No one did ask you, Tony.”

Natasha gets her piece before Tony can start up with Steve. “He’s not functional right now. He’s not living in the same world we are. We need to watch him closely until he is.”

They’re two opposite ends of the spectrum, too polarized to be anything more than half-right.

  
  


Steve keeps involving himself in the meetings with the lawyers, especially since he’s begun to suspect that whole _do media appearances to sway public opinion_ thing was a distraction tactic on Cardozo’s part.

There’s a whole team of them, but Cardozo and Shae are the clear leaders. Shae prefers their insanity defense, but Cardozo likes arguing against the prosecution’s case. It’s a useless thing to disagree about because they would do both in an actual trial, but they bicker about it anyways.

“He never killed anybody not on the lists, he avoided the security guards in the Karpenko killings,” Cardozo points out. “They’re gonna have one hell of a time even getting close to the burden of proof for intent.”

Shae nods along, seemingly for Steve’s sake. “Of course. I think the first aspect of insanity is just as sure, as we discussed with Captain Rogers on Thursday.”

The first aspect of insanity is: that Bucky lacked the mental capacity to appreciate the nature and consequences of his actions at the time of the crime. The second is that Bucky didn’t know that his actions were wrong. They only have to prove one or the other beyond a reasonable doubt to get the defense.

Steve is getting real good at this.

Shae goes on. “I know Elliott and Linnea like the avoiding the security guards argument, but I still think that’s going to turn on us.”

“It shows that he didn’t want to do it. He killed the people they made him kill purely to avoid punishment, and nobody else,” Cardozo argues, grabbing a handful of chips from the bag. Then, holding out their tub of dip to a junior lawyer, “This Kosher?” She nods. He digs in.

“It shows that he made a choice to actively avoid them,” Shae says. “That’s agency, that’s capacity.”

“One moment of discretion isn’t necessarily agency.”

“We’re giving them an in to argue agency.”

“No reasonable juror is making that leap. Prosecution’ll lose ‘em.”

The lawyers have a way of talking to each other that makes Steve feel like they’re hinting at layers upon layers of past conversations that he wasn’t privy to. He’s not sure if all lawyers are this way, or if it’s the type that Tony likes to hire.

In the meetings, they discuss Bucky’s crimes like it’s nothing at all. Everyone on the SI legal team seems to know more about the killings than Steve does. One of the junior lawyers mistakenly says that Bucky killed a Brazilian diplomat when she was really Argentinian, and Cardozo snaps at him. They all know every detail of every crime he’s committed, down to simple breaking and entering.

So, maybe it is good to have the lawyers around.

  
  


At the end of the first week, Steve realizes he’s let his apartment slip; dishes in the sink, dust piling up on the shelves. His ma would have a lot to say about the current state of his apartment. There’s some kind of Tower maid service that Tony and Pepper use, but that is just ridiculous to Steve. If he ever stopped doing his own dishes, Steve hopes Sam or Nat would smack him upside the head.

He’s interrupted by his phone ringing and has to hastily wipe his wet hands against his pants.

“Hey, Tony.”

“I think you should come down here,” Tony says. “We’ve got a Barnes situation.”

Everything in Steve’s head – the nonsense about their next press conference and remembering to switch his laundry – is lost in an instant. He hangs up on Tony and presses the elevator call button about five times, even though he knows that’s not going to do a damn thing.

Steve slams his way into the observation room. “What happened?” He demands.

“Our guest decided he didn’t like his furniture,” Tony says.

He and Natasha are watching the screens, displaying Bucky’s destroyed room. There’s a mangled mess of wooden shards that used to be his chair and table. The dresser has been overturned and smashed. The pillows have been torn from the bed and ripped into several pieces, coating the wreckage with feathers.

Bucky is sitting on the floor with his back against the wall and arms wrapped around his knees. He’s staring straight ahead at nothing in particular, perched in his little space of available flooring.

“Where are his sheets?” Natasha asks.

“They said they’re doing the laundry now.”

Natasha crosses her arms. “Did someone explain to him why they were taken?”

“Yes,” Tony says pointedly.

Steve turns to head down the hall, but–

On the screen, Bucky’s door opens.

“Hello, Bucky,” Dr. Raza says. She doesn’t wait for a response. “I’m going to come over and sit down near you.”

No nonsense, Raza moves a few wood pieces out of the way. She clears a space just big enough for herself, and then sits cross-legged on the floor a few feet in front of Bucky. “Bucky, it is 3:42pm, the year is 2013, and we’re in Avengers Tower in New York. Can you tell me where your anxiety is at?”

“No.” Bucky puts his face down in his folded arms.

“Okay, we’ll say that’s close to a 9 or 10, then. I want you to remember that you’re not going to be in any trouble for anything you say to me. I’m only here to help you feel a little better.”

“Where are the buyers?” His voice is muffled by the fabric of his shirt.

Steve swallows and it hurts. He can feel Natasha watching him. His face feels hot and he can’t even process whether it’s because of her eyes or the fact that he desperately wants to be watching anything – _anything_ – but this, except that he can’t look away. Steve’s fingers brushed Bucky’s on the train, but he did not grab him. Steve held Bucky’s hand and walked him out of that Hydra facility, but he has never convinced him that he really left.

Nobody should get to close their eyes against this and that includes Steve.

“There are no buyers here,” Raza tells him. “We didn’t buy you. You’ve been brought here so that we can try and get you some help.”

Bucky rakes both hands through his hair. “Just do it.”

“What would you like me to do?”

When he speaks again, he sounds more distressed than Steve’s ever heard. “Just do the punishment.” His fingers tremble, even as he clenches fistfuls of hair between them. It’s worse than when Bucky’s ma died, worse than the syrupy fever memories of Bucky at his bedside in winter.

“Bucky, you aren’t going to be punished,” Dr. Raza repeats, patient as ever. “I’d like you to take a breath through your nose, like I’m doing.” She mimics an exaggerated breath.

Bucky sits absolutely still for a moment. Then, he lifts his head, leans to the side, and vomits onto the floor.

The screens go black.

Steve tips his head to the ceiling. “What the hell, Jarvis?”

“Sergeant Barnes seems to be experiencing a panic attack and will receive psychiatric counselling. I fear it would be inappropriate to transmit footage from his room at this time.” He sounds apologetic.

Steve rubs at his temples, turning away from the darkened screens.

Swiveling in his chair, Tony asks, “Are they giving him new furniture?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“He better not ruin this new stuff, too,” Tony mutters.

Natasha chuckles; it’s flat.

“Maybe you should’ve explained it to him,” Tony says to her. “Since you’re the picture of stellar mental health, of course.”

Steve slices a hand through the air at Tony. “Cut it out, will you?” Tired, he sits down in the other chair.

“Whatever.” Tony shrugs, crinkling open a plastic bag of gummy worms that he pulls from the end table drawer. He mutters one more little dig at Natasha, but she leaves the room without taking the bait.

Instead, Tony munches on his gummies and offers one to Steve, who waves him off.

Time drags.

“I need to talk to him,” Steve insists, when Raza comes back to the observation room over thirty minutes later.

“You can talk to him first thing tomorrow morning. He’s going to bed now,” Dr. Raza explains.

It’s just past 4pm; Steve points this out.

“Captain Rogers, panic attacks can be very exhausting. He needs to rest more than you need to talk to him.”

Immediately, Steve is angry at being rebuked. How dare some stranger come in and tell him what Bucky needs? Then, quickly, embarrassment flushes over him. She’s trying to help, he tells himself; she studied people’s brains for years while he was in the ice.

Seeing that Steve isn’t going to respond, Tony asks, “Sooo, he’s not going to ruin this new furniture?”

“He’s feeling better right now,” Raza says.

Tony shrugs a shoulder. “Good enough for me.”

After Raza leaves – back to her real office a few stops away – Steve thinks about going in and seeing Bucky. She’d never know, and Steve really couldn’t care less even if she did find out he’d gone over her head.

He has Jarvis turn the screens back on, but it’s so dark and there’s hardly anything to see; just a lump in the bed.

Steve stays there until the simulated sunlight starts to break through Bucky’s window. When Bucky rubs his eyes and sits up in bed, Steve goes upstairs just long enough to have a shower.

As soon as he enters the room, Bucky gets up from the floor and sits at the table with his hands out in front of him, wrists to the ceiling. They play a few more games of Blackjack, most of which Bucky soundly wins.

“You wanna play something else?” Steve offers.

“Okay,” he says, handing over the deck.

Steve shuffles the cards aimlessly. “Look, I know you were…upset. Yesterday. I just don’t– I want you to know that you’re not going to be punished. I swear, Buck. We would never… If anybody so much as laid a finger on you, I would kill them.”

Bucky blinks at him. “I wasn’t upset about punishment,” he confesses.

“What were you upset about then?”

“I wasn’t,” he says. “I was just playing up.”

Buck lies so smoothly, even Steve can’t pick out any tells. The only reason Steve knows it must be a lie is he saw Bucky damn near tearing chunks of his hair out; he heard the fear in his voice, and that tells the truth every time.

It unsettles Steve though, to have lost that ability to just know, based on nothing more than the way Bucky said a certain word or the tilt of his head.

“Why would you do that?” Steve probes.

“I wanted to see what you and your friends would do.”

“Did we do what you’d hoped?”

Bucky just shrugs.

“Well,” Steve muses, “you don’t need to do that. If you want something from anybody here, you can just ask.”

“I don’t want anything.”

“Sure, Buck,” Steve agrees. He shifts through the deck to make sure all the cards are facing the same way.

“I’m not like you.”

“What is it you think I want?”

Bucky scoffs. “You don’t act like a handler.”

“That’s because I’m not a handler. I told you that.”

Looking at him like he’s brand new, Bucky purses his lips. Then, he goes back to eyeing the wall behind Steve. With one foot on the ground, he tilts backwards in his chair, like he used to do when they went out and the conversation was boring him.

Casually – almost _sing-song_ – Bucky says, “You say you don’t want anything from me, but you’re a liar. You say no punishments ever, but you’re a liar–”

“That was not a lie. You haven’t gotten punished since you got here, and there won’t be any either.”

Bucky slams his metal hand against the table, palm down; the sharp ringing of it makes Steve jump. “You’re a liar,” Bucky hisses through his teeth.

Slowly, he leans across the table, grinning like the Cheshire Cat, all his unnaturally perfect white teeth behind curled lips. Steve raises his chin and looks him dead in the eyes as Bucky puts his weight on the arm he was born with and practically crawls onto the table, like a predator.

“You’re lucky I haven’t killed you.” Bucky says it like a secret.

Cold, metal fingers graze Steve’s jawline, curl under his chin. Bucky presses a thumb into his neck, making a mockery of taking his rabbit-quick pulse. It’s not painful, but uncomfortable. All the while, he’s smiling like a God damned maniac.

Abruptly, Jarvis’ voice booms through the speaker in the ceiling. “Captain Rogers, do you require back-up?” It feels louder, more invasive than usual.

Bucky retracts back into his seat and fixes his face into indifference. It’s maybe the most unsettling thing about it all, the thing that will keep Steve wondering; how he flicks from psychotic glee to boredom.

“No,” Steve fumbles, feeling caught. “We’re fine, Jarvis. Thanks.”

“No problem, Sir.”

Bucky points a metal finger to the ceiling. “I could kill you before they got up from their watching chairs,” he states. “And then there would be punishment.”

Steve leaves Bucky’s room that day in a daze, wanders back to his floor, and flops down. As he’s sinking into the sofa and trying to process, there’s a knock at the door.

The knock says: “It’s Natasha. Open up.”

She’s not going to leave until he talks to her, so Steve takes a deep breath, steadying himself. “It’s unlocked,” he calls.

The door swings open and Nat slides inside, her hair done up in a little ponytail. Except her hair’s not quite long enough for a good ponytail, so messy strands frame her face.

“Are you okay?” She says, sitting beside him and gently taking his chin in one slender hand; a cruel reverse of Bucky’s touch.

Steve leans away from it. “He didn’t hurt me.”

“He threatened to,” she points out.

“But he didn’t.

“But _he threatened to_ , Steve. He’s telling you that he might.”

Steve says nothing at all.

“I think you should take a break,” Natasha says, but he’s already shaking his head. No way. “Just give it a few days.”

“I can’t do that, Nat.”

“Why not?”

Steve’s like a skipping record. “I’m not doing it,” he says.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi. I'm posting two chapters today bc I'm suddenly realizing that my law review duties are coming up QUICK and I wanna get this + a lil sequel done before I have to return to Zoom School of Law

Steve gets in contact with Ronan Lovett, the New York Times journalist who wrote that nice article about Bucky last summer. Instead of the handwritten notes of their June correspondence, Steve sends him an email.

The response comes later that afternoon, giving options for an interview time. The time slots he gives are so broad that Steve could really choose anytime at all. They arrange to meet at Steve’s Tower apartment the following weekend. It’s personal enough, but not as invasive as his place in Brooklyn. The media seems to think that Steve lives at the Tower full-time – which, he does for now – and he’s dreading the day they find his little hideout.

Ronan shows up six minutes early. Jarvis informs Steve that he’s waiting in the lobby, so Steve tells him to let him up now. No point in making him wait around when Steve’s been ready for the past half hour.

He is so damn young. A full head of blonde hair, swept in a side part; almost like Steve used to wear back in the day. It’s old fashioned, but Ronan’s modernized it with dark jeans and a simple olive sweater.

Steve takes his coat and cream scarf and hangs them in the front closet. He brings two glasses of water, like a good host; his ma would be proud. Steve even dusted this morning.

“Must be like living in the White House, staying here,” Ronan says with a smile. He’s cute, Steve notes. Not Steve’s type, but cute.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “It can be a circus sometimes. Lucky we’ve got some distance between us and the floors where Tony likes to throw parties.”

“So,” Ronan says, getting down to business. “I don’t really have a set of questions for you or anything. I was hoping we could just have a talk, about whatever you want. It doesn’t have to be solely focused on Barnes. Sound alright?”

When Steve agrees, Ronan takes out a small recording device from his pocket. He explains that they can either use that, or he can take notes. Either one is fine with Steve, so Ronan chooses the audio recorder.

“I think it distracts from the conversation when I’m scribbling notes the whole time, but hey, some prefer it.” Ronan sets the little rectangle on the coffee table and takes a sip of his water.

Leaning back in the armchair, he starts off by asking why Steve wrote him last summer.

It’s a soft ball. “A friend sent me your article. I hadn’t been reading the news because some of the initial stuff… It was so negative, most of it. Your piece gave him a chance.”

Watching Steve thoughtfully, Ronan says, “He deserves it.”

They talk for nearly forty-five minutes, but it doesn’t feel like it. Ronan is more soft spoken that Steve expected; more contemplative. Just like Nat, he knows how to be quiet and listen without interrupting. He asks questions that Steve’s surprised to find he has good answers for; what is he most looking forward to showing Bucky in the 21st century and which decade that he missed had the best music.

“Thank you for talking with me today, Steve,” Ronan says as he turns off his little device.

“No problem, really.” With the recorder off, Steve can talk off the cuff a little easier. “You know, I– I don’t usually…do this kind of thing. But this was– I could do this again.”

Ronan raises an eyebrow. “Don’t get my hopes up,” he teases.

“I could,” Steve insists. “Someday. Not for a while, I mean. Give me some time to have something new to say.”

“Of course.” He smiles as Steve returns his coat and scarf, and leaves with a promise to give a warning before the article goes to print.

  
  


A week passes, and then two. Sam comes back to New York under the guise of Christmas shopping and flings his stuff all over Steve’s guest bedroom at the Tower. Despite Natasha’s wariness of Bucky, she brings over a box of hair-related goodies; peony conditioner, keratin-infused shampoo, velvety scrunchies.

“I don’t think it’s gonna stay,” Steve teases, trying to twist a puffy maroon tie into his hair.

Natasha shrugs, and then they don’t hear from her for a while.

Bucky graduates from protein shakes and the occasional piece of toast, to a bowl of broth and crackers with dinner. They give him a Brita water filter so he can drink all he wants from the sink. The doctors ask Steve all sorts of questions to cross-reference with the files. Was he ever lactose intolerant? Would he have a preference between bananas and applesauce?

The applesauce comes back up, so they give him a banana with lunch and that stays down.

Bucky drops his old habit of meticulously eating every morsel of food he’s given and takes up squirreling some away instead. Each time Bucky’s given bread or crackers, he takes half of what he gets and folds it into his napkin. The little packages pile up under his pillow until they’re crumbling and moldy. So, the doctors double his carbs and send Steve to take him a Tupperware container.

Scowling, Bucky snatches it from Steve’s hands and gets all moody for the rest of the visit. But when Steve’s gone, he takes out each of his carefully collected snacks and separates the ones that are still good from the inedible. The moldy scraps that Bucky can’t pick around to salvage get laid out in a neat row on the table. On the monitors, Steve and Sam watch Bucky snap the Tupperware closed, now containing what’s left of his hoard.

Then, eighty three stories in the sky, in the year 2013, Steve watches Bucky Barnes sit dutifully at his reinforced table and shove rotting scraps of week-old bread into his mouth.

“What?” Steve breathes, horrified. Bucky chews them up, like it’s _nothing_.

Leaving Sam in the observation room, Steve skids down the hall and bursts into Bucky’s room without even thinking about what he’s going to do next.

Swallowing quickly, Bucky links his fingers around his collection of spoiled food. _Protecting_ it. “You’re back,” he notes.

“Yeah, I’m–… Bucky. You can’t eat that, it’s no good anymore. It’ll make you sick. Look, are you hungry? Let me get you some good food.”

“I’m not hungry.” It might be a lie; Steve couldn’t tell to save his skin.

“Then, why?”

“Waste not, want not,” Bucky recites.

“Do you remember who told us that?” Steve asks, a little hysterical. It doesn’t seem like Bucky does. “Your ma used to say that, when money was tight and we didn’t wanna finish our plates. But we’ve got plenty of food here. Tony – the one who owns this place – he’s got…he’s got more money than God, Buck. Let me get you some good food, if you’re hungry.”

Bucky’s fingers, metal and flesh, don’t move from their barrier around his stash.

So, Steve makes an offer. “How about we trade? You give me those, and I’ll get you some better food. Whatever you want.”

He pulls his arms closer to his body. “You first.”

“Okay,” Steve says in a rush. “What do you want?”

Bucky considers it, maybe wondering how far to push Steve’s offer or maybe trying to decide if he’s being taunted. Or maybe some third possibility that Steve can’t even reach because he’s so out of touch with how Buck’s mind ticks these days.

Bucky comes to a conclusion. “Do you know the colored ice? It’s a sweet.”

Actually, maybe Steve isn’t so out of touch, because he gets it even from Bucky’s weird description. “A popsicle?”

“Yes. Cold, right?”

“Yeah, a popsicle. You want a popsicle?” Bucky nods. “Anything else?” When Bucky refuses anything else, Steve makes him promise – which, Jesus H. Christ – not to eat any more of the moldy bread until Steve gets back with his end of the bargain.

He speed-walks to the elevator and takes it to the common floor. God, please, please let somebody have left a popsicle in there from summer.

Like a madman, Steve rummages through the freezer, setting out boxes of Eggos and vacuum sealed pasta sauce from who-knows-when on the counters to melt. Thankfully, there in the back corner; the Avengers have popsicles in the middle of December.

“Did you find some or are we about to DoorDash popsicles in 20-degree weather?” Sam asks.

Steve shows Sam his find.

Smiling, beside himself, Sam shakes his head. “Go. I’ll clean up your mess.”

“Thanks, Sam!” Steve calls, rushing away with his half-eaten box of goddamn popsicles, of all things.

True to his word, Bucky did not eat anything else while Steve was gone. His face lights up when Steve presents the crushed up, colorful box; but he gets his mask back on quick. Too late, though; Steve saw him happy, and he would drag every frozen treat in this Tower into Buck’s room for another chance at _that_.

“There are lot of flavors,” Steve explains, setting the popsicles on the table between then. It’s all covered in ice crystals, which fall to the tabletop and make little puddles.

Pinching the corner with two metal fingers, Bucky pulls it closer and peers inside. “Which one is mine?”

“You can have any one you want. Have two, or three if you want,” Steve says, deliriously. Bucky will no doubt be sick if he eats two or three. Hell, he might not be able to keep one down. But if Bucky wants them, Steve doesn’t care.

The hoard he so carefully curated and let spoil is overlooked; Bucky pushes it towards Steve without a second glance. Watching him poke around the popsicle box, Steve folds Bucky’s stash into the napkins meant to contain it. He wants to throw it away, but not here. Not where Bucky could pick it back out of the trash.

Bucky picks out a red popsicle and unwraps it, sucking it between his lips. And…no, nope. Steve looks away. He is not about to ruin this with his dumb thoughts and his blushing. Nothing escapes Bucky’s notice these days, and the last thing he needs is for Buck to think this was some kind of ploy on Steve’s part.

Casual as ever, Bucky slides the box towards Steve. “You can have one,” he offers.

“Thanks, Bucky.” He picks one out at random and tries not to focus too much on eating normally. Steve can eat a goddamn popsicle without overthinking it. Buck’s his best friend, underneath everything. They’re friends.

“Do you remember these?” Steve asks, mostly because – God, help him – he cannot just watch Bucky suck on a popsicle in silence.

Bucky bites off the tip, chewing thoughtfully. “Maybe,” he replies cryptically. He’s just watching Steve. Then, he takes mercy on him and says, “I’ve had this before.”

“Yeah we ate these when we were kids.”

“In Brooklyn?” Bucky guesses. A drip starts sliding down his popsicle and he licks up the long end of it. God, Steve would’ve loved the chance to really take his time with Bucky, back in the day. He shifts in his chair.

“Yep. In Brooklyn,” Steve hastily bites a chunk from the top of his own popsicle and crushes it up. It’s really fucking cold, so Steve ends up moving the slush around his mouth to avoid freezer burning his tongue.

“You’re eating it too quickly,” Bucky scolds.

“Yeah,” Steve agrees. Why is he acting like this.

Bucky carefully bites around the stick, and then sucks it clean. Flipping it over, he reads aloud. “Where do spaghetti and sauce go to dance?”

“I dunno, where?”

“A meatball.” He says it with a little smile. It’s an awful joke. Steve can’t look away. “Let me see yours,” he orders, holding out his hand for Steve’s stick before he’s even done licking it clean. “Did you see it?”

“No.”

So, Bucky reads, “What kind of bird is always sad?”

A bluebird, Steve knows. But he says: “I don’t know. What kind?”

“A bluebird.” Bucky flips the stick over, like he’s expecting another joke to appear. “These are dumb,” he decides.

Steve offers him the dripping box. “Do you want more? Cause the ones you don’t want are gonna need to go back in the freezer.”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Sure.”

Reluctantly, Steve stands up. “I can bring you more tomorrow, if you want.”

“I need to tell you something,” Bucky says seriously.

Oh, God. “Sure.”

Bucky stands and beckons Steve closer, then closer again. Heart hammering away in his chest, Steve steps into Bucky’s space. Buck glances at his chin. His eyelashes are so damn long; it reminds Steve of shading them individually with the sharpest pencil he could manage; of watching golden firelight dance over Bucky’s cheekbones. He’s tied his hair back in a little bun. How did Steve not notice that until now? The scrunchie is aquamarine; one of the ones from Natasha.

When Steve thinks about Bucky fixing his hair back, he wants to fall to his knees.

“What is it?” Steve rasps.

Bucky takes Steve’s elbow and twists him to the side. He leans in, cups his hand against Steve’s ear. “Thank you,” he whispers. Bucky releases him and steps back, just watching.

Steve clears his throat, so he can speak without completely embarrassing himself. “Of course.”

He leaves the room with a bubbling happiness. He has to pretend to scratch at his mouth to cover up the smile that he can’t get off his face. Sam is going to tease Steve relentlessly if he goes to him in this state, so he curls his lips in and thinks of battle plans while he throws the popsicle box back into the freezer and goes to get his coat.

As Steve expected, Sam is sitting in the observation room, but he’s scrolling through his phone and the screens are off. “Ready to go?” Steve asks.

“Yeah,” Sam says distractedly. He doesn’t ask what Bucky whispered to Steve. Instead, he looks up at him, smiling. “You alright, man?”

“Fine.”

Sam outright cackles. “I thought you were gonna have a _stroke_ in there,” he cries.

“No,” Steve sputters. “Why would I–? What do you mean?”

Putting his locked phone to his ear, Sam leans back and puts a hand on his stomach. “Hello, 911? Yes, Captain America–” He cuts off there, laughing too hard to continue.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Steve lies.

“Ah,” Sam breathes, swiping at his eyes. He looks like he’s about to go on with his bit, but he dissolves into giggles before he can get back into character. “Oh, man,” he says once he gets hold of himself again.

Steve crosses his arms. “Having fun?”

“Damn right I am!” Sam jumps up and lets Steve hold the door open for him.

They meander down 42nd Street, towards Times Square. All the while, keeping up a steady chatter and back-and-forth banter of all things non-Bucky. It’s nice; Steve’s world may begin and end with Bucky Barnes, but it’s grounding to know that not everyone’s does.

Sam reminds him just how much time he has sunk into the note, and then the Winter Soldier investigation, and now Bucky himself. Steve still feels very new to this century, despite his year and a half in it.

The Disney store is two floors and has got to be at least six times as big as Steve’s first apartment. They do a loop of the place before Sam gets any sort of idea about what to get his niece. Then, he stands in front of a row of various outer space outfits, texting his sister.

Muttering about sizes, Sam digs through the racks and pulls out a few sets of children’s clothing. He hands them to Steve and they go to pay. The cashier is young and blonde. If Steve had to bet on it, he’d say NYU student. Her jaw falls open when she looks up at them, like a cartoon, but she quickly clamps it shut and goes through her typical script.

After that, Sam drags Steve through a few more stores, only getting three more people knocked off his never-ending list. They both manage to find gifts for Natasha; Sam gets a pair of earrings that look like McDonalds fries – some kind of inside joke – and Steve finds a stuffed black widow spider with a cute little smile on its face.

Mildly successful, they return to the Tower with their bags in tow. “We’re gonna have to go back out in a few days,” Sam says, and Steve groans.

“ _You’re_ gonna have to go back out,” Steve corrects.

“ _You_ still haven’t gotten anything for your boy. Christmas is in, like, two weeks.”

Steve smiles. “Good thing Bucky’s Jewish then.” They found Buck around the second or third day of Hanukkah; Steve’s pretty sure he destroyed his room on the last.

“Hm,” Sam says. “That means you already owe him eight presents. Better get on that, man.”

“I don’t think he– He probably doesn’t really care about presents right now, right?”

Rather than answering, Sam says, “You’re still gonna let me have a crack at him tomorrow?”

Steve bristles. “He’s not mine to let you have a crack at.”

“Just making sure you’re ready for me to have even more access to embarrassing Steve Rogers stories.”

Steve will never be ready for that, but he smiles anyways and lets Sam lead the way through the automatic doors of the Tower’s private back entrance.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lil retcon: the prosecutor is the U.S. Attorney (federal government prosecutor, abbreviated "USA") not the District Attorney (local government prosecutor, abbreviated "DA") bc Bucky 100% broke federal law and also committed crimes in DC (where the federal government has jurisdiction). Yikes. Not good, Buck.
> 
> Also: reading this over before posting I realized it kinda seems like I’m implying some mask discourse at one point, which I am not! wear a fucking mask!

On the screen, Sam strides into the room and sticks out a hand, smiling with all his teeth. “Hi there. I’m Sam.”

“Bucky,” he responds cautiously, shaking Sam’s hand and then drawing back quickly.

“I just wanted to come in and say hi. You must be going crazy, talking to nobody but therapists, lawyers, and Steve. Can I sit?”

Bucky nods, so Sam slides into a seat. Under the table, he pushes the other chair out with his foot.

So, Bucky takes the invitation and joins him. “You’re Steve’s friend?”

“Yep. He mention me before?”

“No,” Bucky lies.

Sam probably knows it’s a lie, too – Steve’s pretty sure he was around the day he told Bucky about Sam – but he pretends like he doesn’t. “Ah, well, not too much to tell. I don’t have one of those superhero backstories like Steve and Stark do. If you remember a black guy with wings from DC, that would be me.”

“You live in this tower, too?”

“Not reeeally. I’m just staying in Steve’s guest bedroom right now. Living in this tower, that’s, like, diving head first into the whole superhero thing. I’m more of a part-timer.”

Bucky tilts his head. “You’re a part-time…superhero?”

“It sounds pretty weird when you say it like that, doesn’t it?”

They get along, which is…objectively great but a little terrifying.

Steve turns the screens off after a while; Jarvis will tell him if something happens, but he already knows nothing will.

When Sam comes out, he’s raving. “Your boy tells some _wild_ stories! I’m talking he should write a book or something.”

“Yeah, they’re something, huh?”

To date, Steve has only managed to coax one story out of Bucky. It was like something out of a magical realism novel he read once, with a constantly shifting narrative and details that were too good to be true. He suspects Bucky was either messing with him or combining a whole host of events into a single tale.

It’s not just the stories either; Bucky sometimes talks about his experience with Hydra in ways that make Steve have doubts. Handler Lukin once made him stick his human hand into a massive tank filled with poisonous jellyfish; he and Rumlow were the only survivors of a plane crash in the Arabian desert.

Steve doesn’t accuse Bucky of lying because he doesn’t have a clue why he says such things in the first place. Maybe he really believes the things he says, or maybe he’s trying to act out so obviously that Steve will crack and punish him like he expects. Hell, for all Steve knows, that stuff actually happened.

  
  


The meetings with the lawyers slow to a halt, as there’s not much more to do but keep up the societal pressure on the U.S. Attorney’s office. Shae emails Steve and Pepper to let them know they can stop sending footage; they’ve got enough and Bucky is getting past the point of sympathetic vulnerability. Steve does a few more press conferences and even another interview, but it doesn’t feel like he’s getting anywhere.

A junior lawyer hands a stapled packet to Cardozo, who leans back in his chair to examine it. “Why haven’t we recorded the timestamps for Rogers’ visit on the fourth?” He demands.

“Elliott, we never received that footage from Ms. Potts.”

The fourth was the day after Bucky destroyed his room, when he nearly crawled across the table and talked about killing Steve. Steve says, “He wasn’t happy with me that day. He–”

“Ah!” Cardozo interrupts, putting up a hand. “Don’t finish that thought. We don’t need to know.” He scribbles something down on the paper and haphazardly hands it back to the junior lawyer. “He wasn’t feeling like talking that day. Find three or four more days that aren’t going to help us and strike those, too,” Cardozo instructs.

Whenever Steve asks Cardozo and Shae for their predictions on what the U.S. Attorney will decide, they give some runaround politician answer. To Steve, that seems to spell bad news; but when he brings it up to Pepper, she’s not worried.

“That’s just how they talk about things,” she assures him.

Though they don’t give him answers about the probability of a trial, they become increasing confident about their chances of an acquittal, should it come to that.

Any sort of premeditation is essentially off the table, from the way the lawyers talk. Still, the prosecution could go for a lesser offense. There’s felony murder – killing someone while committing another felony; or depraved heart murder – reckless indifference towards human life. The lesser charges don’t require premeditation or even intent to kill.

What that means is: they’re more likely to lose the prima facie case and will probably have to rely on an affirmative defense. Which is not ideal, but okay according to Shae, who’s been into the affirmative defenses from the start.

Anyways, Steve doesn’t like the affirmative defenses one bit. Insanity is the one that gets brought up the most, and it seems like they’re sure to prove it. Bucky’s original psych eval – a where he claims that he was never a child and hardly knows what continent he’s on – is pretty damning.

But all that means is Bucky getting locked up in a mental institution instead of a prison. Steve’d rather take him on the run.

  
  


The next time Steve goes to visit, Bucky is sitting at the table, waiting. He’s got a pen in his hand and a few more laid out in front of him; who gave him those?

There’s also a new decoration; a single piece of paper tacked onto the wall near the ground in the spot where Bucky likes to sit on the floor.

“Can I?” Steve asks, pointing to the paper. Bucky shrugs, so he leans down to have a look.

It’s a worksheet titled _Cognitive Restructuring Worksheet_. In a little cloud that says _What I’m Thinking_ , Bucky has written: _Steve and Tony are Handlers_. Then, in two different pen colors, he’s got:

_**Facts supporting this thought:** _

_
  * They come into the room whenever they want
  * They tell people to bring the food and water and things for the room
  * Tony said they work together in this building
_ 


_**Facts contradicting this thought:**_

_
  * They say they are not Handlers
  * They have not done cryo or missions and it’s been a long time
  * No punishment when I broke things and didn’t follow rules
  * Steve does things that Handlers usually do not do (Give an example: playing cards)
_ 


_**Is this thought based on facts or feelings?** Some facts. 3 facts for and 4 facts against._

_**How did this thought come to me? Is my source reliable?** It came from my memory of Handlers. Not reliable._

_**How likely is this scenario?** Somewhat likely._

_**Could others have different perspectives? Give examples.** Steve and Tony’s friends probably don’t think they are Handlers but that doesn’t matter. I feel that Steve and Tony’s friends’ perspectives don’t matter a lot to me because they have different relationships with them. But they could still have knowledge that I don't have._

_**What are some alternative explanations?** They could be friends. They could work together as superheroes and not Handlers/mission support._

“Is this therapy homework?”

Bucky doesn’t reply and it doesn’t seem like he plans on it either – he’s not staring off into space, just consciously ignoring him.

As soon as Steve joins him at the table, he takes a clump of his hair and holds it out to the side. He’s been getting a lot better at washing it ever since his shower strike didn’t yield any results.

“You need to cut my hair,” he says.

“Okay, I can do it tomorrow. How short do you want it?”

I will take pity on you just this once, his face says. “Here.” Bucky puts a finger against his shoulder, barely an inch from the current ends of his hair. “But it’s tangled.”

To illustrate, Bucky runs his fingers through his hair. They stick near the roots.

“I won’t cut it ‘till tomorrow. You can brush it out tonight.”

“ _You_ can brush it out.”

So, Steve goes to the bathroom and finds a comb in the little cabinet. He comes back to stand behind Bucky, who watches him warily. At Bucky’s direction, Steve starts with the ends and painstakingly works his way up, getting through snarls of hair. How did he even wash it properly with all these knots?

“You’re pulling,” Bucky complains, raising a shoulder to impede Steve’s movements.

“Sorry, Buck. It’s tangled.”

“It wouldn’t be tangled if you did this before.”

I wasn’t aware I was supposed to be brushing your hair for you, Steve doesn’t say. He works the comb through bunches of matted hair until it slides smoothly through. He must be washing it properly somehow because it looks soft and healthy. Steve rests his index finger on the comb blades as he runs it through Bucky’s hair a few final times, gets to feel the silkiness of it brush the back of his knuckle.

He stops himself. Steps back. Don’t touch. “You’re good.”

When Bucky doesn’t say anything else – the issue apparently resolved – Steve sits back down and starts sketching the pen in Bucky’s hand. He’s rusty as hell, and it’s made a lot harder by the fact that Buck won’t stop moving it around.

Bucky twists the pen between two metal fingers. “Did we used to fuck?” He asks.

Steve’s hand freezes, just for a moment. He looks up at Bucky, but Bucky is fixated on unscrewing the top part of his pen.

“Yes,” Steve says.

The pen pops apart in Bucky’s hand. He tilts the body of it until a little spring and a cylindrical ink cartridge fall out. Bucky places the parts on the table one by one, like Steve’s not even in the room.

“In Brooklyn?” he asks, straightening the spring so it’s perfectly parallel to the ink cartridge.

Steve takes a moment to start the first lines of the New York skyline. “No, in the war.”

“ _No_ ,” Bucky corrects, like Steve is an idiot, “in _Brooklyn_.”

It clicks what he’s talking about. “Oh. Yeah, we messed around as kids in Brooklyn. Not for long though, and it wasn’t…” He searches for the words. “It wasn’t really fucking.”

“Whatever,” Bucky says. He mumbles something under his breath, so quiet that even Steve can’t pick up the exact words. It sounds like he’s imitating Steve.

Bucky takes the red pen apart the same way he did the first, black one, laying each little piece spaced out in its own little rectangle. As Steve watches, he makes another rectangle of pieces with his blue pen. Bucky keeps moving the pieces ever so slightly to ensure the spacing is identical among the three shapes of disassembled parts.

“He never wanted to tell anyone,” Bucky says casually. “He knew he wasn’t good enough.”

A moment passes while Steve’s brain ticks into catching on that “he” is actually Bucky himself. “I think we didn’t want to tell anyone because it was illegal.”

“You didn’t care about illegal,” Bucky accuses. God, he could be referring to a whole mess of things; the fighting, the draft papers, the Babe Ruth he once stole as a preteen.

“This was more serious.”

Bucky starts re-assembling the black pen, very slowly.

Eventually, he asks, “Why was it more serious?”

“People weren’t accepting back then,” Steve explains. “We would’ve been in a world of trouble if it got out.”

“You didn’t want your friends knowing?”

“I didn’t want anyone knowing and neither did you.”

“Peggy Carter was your friend.” It’s a statement, but it makes Steve feel like he needs to reaffirm it. Bucky goes on, “You didn’t want her knowing.”

“Buck, I’ve told you; we didn’t want anyone knowing. It would’ve gotten us kicked out of the army and thrown in jail.”

Bucky points up at the air vent with the camera hidden in the screw. When he speaks, it sounds bitter and proud. “Now all your friends know.”

  
  


It turns out: Bucky is supposed to be using his pens to do his therapy work and write his memories in a little notebook that Dr. Raza gave him. Instead, he writes and doodles on his table. Steve finds them when he goes to cut Bucky’s hair.

NOT BROOKLYN, he’s written. There’s a crude little drawing of a random, jerky skyline.

“You know, you’re not supposed to write on the table, Buck.” Steve runs a hand through Bucky’s hair, making sure the ends are even.

“Is that a new rule?” He challenges.

“No. I don’t make the rules for you. I’ve told you that.”

“Then I’ll keep doing it.”

“Why? Why should I have to make a rule in order for you to listen to what I have to say?”

“Without rules, there is chaos,” Bucky recites, like he’s the one trying to educate Steve on how to behave.

Steve taps his shoulder and he pops up, going straight for the bathroom mirror to examine Steve’s work. After a very preliminary check of his hair, he comes back and sits on his bed.

“Did Pierce tell you that?”

“I don’t know.”

The way Bucky claims not to know things sometimes, it’s like a taunt; make me tell you.

Steve doesn’t know how to say: just fucking take my opinions into account without the threat of getting beat on. So, he doesn’t any anything at all.

  
  


Before Steve and Sam can finish their holiday shopping, the whole team gets called up to a Winnipeg suburb, where there’s some kind of noxious gas rising from the sewers. The people of Transcona have been locked in their homes; it takes gas masks to keep from being knocked out by the stuff.

It should be a day-long mission at the most, but they just can’t locate the source. Something is blocking Tony’s scanners, convincing him there’s a former SI employee behind it.

“Have you ever considered the possibility that someone just outdid you?” Natasha asks, after they’ve all heard Tony’s daily monologue of suspicions. It could be this guy, who Tony had fired on his birthday out of spite; or this other woman, whose career Tony sabotaged after she leaked his tech.

“No,” Tony says. “Do you know me at all?”

Whatever has been going on between Tony and Natasha, it persists. They bicker at each other constantly, to the point where Steve can’t stand to be in the room with the two of them together. The team didn’t intend on being in Transcona so long and they keep on thinking they might be able to finish things up the following day, so they’re forced to hole up in a local hotel.

They trod through the sewers like it’s a day job and come back up to sleep, empty handed and covered in sludge. The masks they have to wear are so tight that they cut into the backs of Steve’s ears and leave him with a headache.

To makes matters worse, Tony refuses to go down with them after the fourth day. He claims he’ll be of more use aboveground; that he needs the suit’s filtration system to be down there but there’s not enough space for him to fly around.

They’re not bad points, but Natasha takes offense. “He’s acting like a spoiled brat,” she raves.

It’s taken them about twenty minutes each to wash the stench from their skin. They take turns in their room’s single bathroom.

Steve gives noncommittal answers until she gets frustrated with him, too and quits trying to rant.

At the end of the night, Steve opens up his phone and goes to Bucky’s contact information. He told Dr. Raza where he’d be and the legal team knows their situation, too; so, it’s not like Bucky will be wondering where he is. Steve wishes like hell he could just call Bucky up, just to hear his voice. But he doesn’t. He stares at the five black letters of Bucky’s name in his phone; then he lets the screen time out and go dark, and he curls up to sleep.

Despite Tony’s ongoing promises of a breakthrough, it never comes. Steve and Clint are paired up and trudging through ankle deep who-knows-what when they duck into an offshoot pipe and stumble upon thicker gas than they’ve ever encountered. They radio it in.

Three hundred feet later, there’s a middle aged man in a hazmat suit attending to several oversized, silently running machines. He doesn’t put up a fight.

Clint gleefully snaps the handcuffs on. Muffed by his gas mask, he says, “Not feeling too chatty now, are ya?”

They turn him over to local cops, who identify him as one Ronald B Wright; born 1981 in Toronto; never had a job in his life.

After they’ve all cleaned up, Steve barges into Tony and Rhodey’s room with the police report and points Wright’s employment history out to Tony. He shrugs Steve off.

“You’re kidding me?” Rhodey says. “We’ve all had to listen to you fight about this for the past week and now it’s…” He imitates Tony’s shrug.

Tony throws a shirt across the room into his open suitcase. “The spider’s got a bone to pick with me. Not my problem.”

“You’ve been picking at her all week,” Rhodey says.

“She’s been after me ever since Barnes came around.”

Steve turns to Tony. “What does Bucky have to do with any of this?”

“She’s always pissy that I wanna let him do what he wants. She acts like she’s the only one with a clue about what happened to him.” Tony points at Steve. “And you’re in no place to be bossing me around when I’m the one feeding and housing your boyfriend.”

Boyfriend. Steve seethes. There’s only one way Tony would know about that kind of thing. “So, all that about Jarvis deleting the footage of his room after 24 hours, you not being able to see it. That was all bullshit, huh?”

“What?”

“ _You told me_ that camera could only be viewed from that room and it was on auto-delete. You’re a liar, Tony.”

Tony glances at Rhodey, then back to Steve. The shirt he was about to pack is still frozen in his hands. “I haven’t seen anything,” he says carefully. “Steve, I was joking.”

Steve shakes the police report in his face and slams it down on the bed. “Figure your shit out with Nat.”

He shuts the door hard behind him.

  
  


They’ve been in Transcona a neat seven days; nobody wants to stay another. So, they set the quinjet to stealth mode and let Jarvis pilot them back. Everyone settles in the main hold, packed beside each other in the seats. The air is thick with tension. Tony stays in the pilot’s seat, even though Jarvis has full control.

Natasha plops at his side and gives him a look; did something happen? Steve just shakes his head. They’re absorbed into the silence.

When Steve opens his eyes, they’re settled on the Tower landing pad and he can’t remember falling asleep. He pokes at Natasha, sleeping on his shoulder.

Stumbling inside, Steve finds himself in the observation room; dead on his feet. Bucky’s room is dark, but the camera lets him make out a lump in the bed covers. According to the time stamp in the corner, it’s just past three in the morning.

Steve ends up knocking on Buck’s door anyways. He pushes it open an inch, peeking inside. Nothing comes flying at his head and the room is quiet, so he goes in and shuts the door softly behind him.

“Buck?” He asks the dark room.

The light goes on. Bucky is sitting up in his bed, unhappily rubbing at his eyes. His hair is a goddamn mess.

“Hi,” Steve says. He’s not really sure why he came in here, other than he couldn’t stand the thought of going to bed without seeing Bucky.

Bucky asks, “Where did you go?’

“Canada,” Steve explains. “Didn’t– Did Dr. Raza tell you? There was a situation in Canada that we had to go deal with. But I’m back now.”

“She told me.”

Steve shifts his weight, puts his hands on his hips to keep from fidgeting. “So, I can– I’ll come by and visit you tomorrow, I guess. At the normal time. If that’s okay?” But Sam, he realizes. “Actually, shit. I’ve gotta go to the store with Sam, but if you need anything you can text me. I can bring you something from the store, if you–”

Bucky interrupts. “Bring me a smoothie?”

“From the store?” There’s gotta be a Jamba Juice or something, no matter where Sam ends up wanting to go.

“Or. Right now?”

All at once, Steve feels like he’s spent the past week resting. “Okay. Yeah, what kind of smoothie do you want?”

“Fruit?” He guesses.

“What kind?”

Bucky frowns. “How should I know what kind? Just fruit.”

Running through what might still be good in the fridges upstairs, Steve says, “Is strawberry okay? How about strawberry and mango.”

“But no kiwi,” he says sternly. “I’m allergic to kiwis.”

He is most definitely not allergic to kiwis – he’s not allergic to anything anymore – but Steve agrees. He brings the smoothie and makes a grilled cheese sandwich for himself.

Buck lets him sit on the foot of the bed with him, pelting Steve with all sorts of questions – why was Steve gone so long, who else was in Canada – before suddenly running out of energy and going quiet.

Steve sits up with Bucky until he falls asleep, just as the simulated dawn begins to break through his window. By the time Steve gets back upstairs, he’s barely left himself time for a nap before he has to go gift shopping with Sam, but he wakes up feeling better than he ever did in Transcona.

  
  


It’s an unusually warm December. With their shopping done, clutching warm drinks like lifelines, Steve and Sam are pelted with clumps of freezing slush instead of the usual dusty snow. It turns the pavement into a slick mess.

Back inside, Sam shrugs his coat off and slings it, dripping, onto a hook. “You know, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say he might be jealous.”

“Not like I’ve got dates knocking down my door.” Steve toes off his wet sneakers and haphazardly kicks them out of the immediate entryway.

“He doesn’t know that. I’m just saying: why bring up your past relationship like that? Either he was trying to forcefully out you, or he wanted to be sure that we all knew he had first dibs.”

“I don’t think so, Sam.”

“Keep in mind, he brought all this up _the day after_ he and I met.”

Steve groans. “Stop.”

“It’s true! I’m a good-looking dude,” Sam says. “Makes sense that he’d see me and think, ‘damn, I gotta lay my claim.’”

He’s so ridiculous; Steve laughs at him, shaking his head.

“I know you aren’t gonna try to argue I’m not a solid nine. You were flirting with me day one.”

“I was not flirting with you,” Steve corrects, faux stern.

“You were completely flirting with me, man.”

Maybe he was flirting. A tiny bit. Not even really enough to call it flirting.

Sam bounces around on the balls of his feet, play punching Steve in the bicep until Steve laughs and shoves at him. “Yeah, I got you,” Sam decides.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The unofficial name for this chapter is: Bucky outs Steve, and then Steve outs himself.


	16. Chapter 16

Sam and Natasha start slacking more and more on their enforcement of the “no visiting Bucky without someone in the observation room” rule; and Steve takes full advantage. He considers pulling the air vent camera out entirely – there’s no point in having an expensive piece of tech sitting unused in Bucky’s ceiling – but he’s almost positive Jarvis would tattle, rendering the entire thing a useless endeavor.

“I brought you something.” Steve doesn’t mention that it’s for Hanukkah – which was over weeks ago – but he’s wrapped it up in shiny silver paper. It doesn’t feel right to say: you’re Jewish, this is what you believe in.

Bucky – who has been scrolling through the phone that Steve didn’t even know he used – is enraptured by the gift; he fixes on it and reaches out, gingerly taking it in both hands and sitting down at the table. He turns it over until he finds the seam of the wrapping. Buck looks up at Steve.

“Go on. You can open it.”

“You shut it,” Bucky points out, tapping the piece of tape against the bottom of the package.

Steve goes over and slides a finger under the wrapping paper. “You can tear it, Buck.”

“Stop!” Bucky pushes Steve’s hand away. He picks at the edge of the tape with his nail until it starts to give, peeling it up with the upmost care.

A little bit of silver comes away, but it stays mostly intact. After doing the same with each of the three pieces of tape, Bucky pulls back the wrapping paper. He folds it up into a neat rectangle and sets it in his lap, safe from Steve’s reaching hands.

It’s a new deck of cards with neat, simple illustrations – minimalist, Sam called them – rather than the usual elaborate artwork. Bucky picks the box open and carefully takes out a card; it constantly fascinates Steve, how gentle his metal fingers can be.

He lays it flat on the table, then takes out another and another, until he has a perfectly aligned row of spades; ace, king, queen, jack, ten.

“You like them?” Steve asks.

Bucky touches each card, going down the line.

“I like them,” he decides.

Flipping over the queen of spades, Bucky runs a finger along the sharp edge. “Let’s do the 21 game.”

They play so many rounds of blackjack that Steve loses count.

  
  


Sam goes to his mom’s place for Christmas, half-heartedly inviting Steve even though he no doubt knows that he’ll be turned down. Bruce’s departure is mysterious; he says he’ll see them in the new year and then he isn’t around anymore. Tony and Pepper go to California, leaving a massive tree and a whole mess of wrapped gifts behind.

With the Tower to themselves, Steve and Natasha spend more time in the common areas, sprawled out on the furniture just because they can. Some of the Christmas lights get stripped from the tree and hung around the arching entryway between the living room and kitchen. They drink wine and watch a show called Queer Eye that Nat seems to know an awful lot about. After she threatens to call the show on Steve’s behalf, he lets himself to dragged to the store for some new clothes.

For dinner one night, Natasha points out that they’ve never been to the restaurant downstairs; the same one that Bucky’s food comes from. It’s open to the public and quite busy, but Steve and Nat get seated in a corner right away.

“You know,” she says, out of the blue, “Tony and I have been at odds for a while now.”

“No shit, Nat.”

She ignores his comment. “But after we got back from Transcona, he very maturely came to me and gave something like an apology,” Natasha says conversationally. “That was your doing, wasn’t it?”

“I might’ve had a hand in it,” Steve admits.

“I’m actually impressed,” she confesses. “Tony has a lot of respect for you.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re impressed because I also accidentally outed myself to him and Rhodes during that conversation,” he says.

Natasha bursts out laughing. A grin stays stuck to her face as Steve rehashes his conversation in Tony and Rhodey’s Canadian motel room.

Then, she gets serious. She folds up her menu and puts it aside, looking straight at Steve. “You need to be careful, Rogers.”

“What do you mean?”

“You are not subtle,” she says, point blank. “It’s painfully obvious that you want him.”

“ _Nat_ , I would not–” He cuts off, lowers his voice. “He can hardly tell us what he wants to eat,” Steve hisses. “What makes you think he could agree to– to anything like that?”

“Relax,” Natasha eases, “I’m not saying you’re going to jump into bed with him. I’m saying that you’re giving him an opportunity to manipulate you. You’re making yourself into an easy target.”

“You don’t know that he’s going to do that.”

“It’s what I would do,” she says. “What I did do, at first.”

This is not the first time they’ve had this conversation. “He’s a different person. He’s in a different situation.”

“You’re right, but we come from the same world. He’s spent 70 years in a place where the only way to get what he needs is to lie and manipulate people.”

“And if we keep treating him like he’s still in that world, then he’s never going to believe that we’re different.”

“Steve, I know how much he means to you, but–”

“I know what you’re gonna say, Nat. It’s just… I’m getting somewhere with him. I know I am.”

“He’s asking you to do things for him,” she says. Natasha has hardly been around recently, so there’s no way that’s anything but a lucky guess.

The waitress saves him from having to answer, approaching the table and sweetly taking their orders; shrimp alfredo for Steve, lamb chops for Natasha, two glasses of wine. The drinks come back almost immediately.

Natasha swirls her glass and takes the tiniest possible sip. “Do you want to know why he does that?” She asks. Steve doesn’t think he’s going to like her answer; he tells her so, checking his phone under the table even though he knows he’ll find nothing. Natasha goes on anyways. “The only thing handlers do that could be considered kindness is provide the basic necessities. They give you clothes, cut your hair, they’ll tell you when to sleep. He wants you to take over doing those things because that’s how he perceives kindness. He probably still thinks that Pierce was kind to him.”

There’s not much Steve can say; she might be right today but someday soon, she won’t be. “You’re going to have to trust me.”

“I’m trying to.”

  
  


The knowledge that Bucky is actively using his phone for _something_ starts to dig its way into Steve’s head. He leaves his own phone on the table while he eats so he can see the screen. Just in case. He leaves it on the bathroom counter while he showers and checks it when he can’t sleep at night. But nothing ever comes of it.

The screen lights up once while Steve’s scrubbing shampoo into his hair. He stumbles out, dripping all over the floor, soap sliding down his temple.

It’s Cardozo’s number. Weren’t the lawyers supposed to be on some holiday break?

“Steve! Elliott Cardozo. You busy?”

“Not really, why?”

“We are in the process of going over some pictures with Barnes, as you and I discussed over the phone last Friday. I’m wondering if you’ve got some time to come down to his room. He’s asked for you.”

Steve agrees and rinses off as fast as possible. As he approaches Bucky’s room, he can hear Raza and Shae in the hallway.

“–was necessary, Maribel,” Shae is saying.

“Then you should’ve rescheduled, _Simon_. I told you casual wear.”

When Steve rounds the corner, Shae is hurriedly smoothing down a plain white t-shirt; it looks like an undershirt instead of something you’d wear on its own.

Cardozo pops his head out of the observation room. He’s got on dark jeans and a sweater; it’s weird, seeing them in anything but full suit getups. “Good, Steve’s here. Let’s go back in.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing yet,” Cardozo eases. “We’ve got a few pictures of Hydra defendants the USA believes had repeated contact with Barnes. We started looking at them, he asked for you, and Maribel thought we should wait.”

Bucky’s eyes go wide when he sees Steve, like he’s just randomly decided to drop by instead of being summoned. Raza follows behind him with an extra chair, which she sets down next to Bucky’s.

In the doorway, Cardozo and Shae linger, bickering amongst themselves. Raza turns to them. “Are you two going to join us?”

They come inside and sit down. Shae opens a folder and sets a recording device – like the one Ronan Lovett had – on the table. In turns, Shae and Cardozo bring Steve up to speed. They’re presenting Bucky with 5 photographs at a time, some showing Hydra operatives that are already in custody and some random people. It’s Bucky’s job to identify who’s Hydra and say if he can remember anything about them.

Shae’s first batch of five pictures are all nondescript white men. They look normal.

Bucky points to one. “Scientist,” he says.

“Can you tell us anything about him?” Cardozo asks.

Bucky straightens the little snapshot. It could be the man’s Facebook picture. He’s wearing a sky blue polo, holding a golf club; smiling. “He cut me. For the trackers.”

Shae and Cardozo look at each other. Shae shakes his head ever so slightly, gathering up his photos and setting them to the side.

The next two sets are more of the same. Two Hydra agents in the second set, but Bucky doesn’t know anything about them. One more in the third; she piloted a jet to his drop zone in Villa Nueva.

Shae sets out five more ordinary faces.

Bucky looks to Steve, unhappy. “I don’t want any more pictures,” he complains.

“How many more of these?” Steve demands.

Shae peeks at his folder. “Four.”

Steve leans in towards Bucky. “How about two more, Buck. Then you’re done.”

“Fine.”

As Shae arranges another set of pictures, Steve reaches under the table towards Bucky, offering a hand. He can’t see it, but he knows Bucky notices; nobody can lift a finger in this room without Bucky noticing it.

Bucky slips his metal hand into Steve’s, never taking his eyes off the pictures in front of him. If Raza – on Bucky’s other side – sees anything, she doesn’t show it.

Holding Bucky’s metal hand is different from his flesh one; it’s cool and smooth, and it doesn’t give when Steve squeezes him. Steve used to know Bucky's hands by the lines on his palms and the curve of his fingernails, but touching his metal hand is soothing in its uniqueness; this could never be anybody but Bucky. It sends a rush through Steve's heart. He wants to run his thumb across the metal plates and ridges of Bucky’s knuckle, but the moment feels too brittle. Steve focuses on not moving.

As Shae cleans up his last five photos, Bucky gets very still, watching his hands and his face. Over the folder, Shae hesitates.

“We’ve got one more thing we’d like to try,” he says.

Steve raises his chin.

Cardozo says, “Could you describe the interior of Alexander Pierce’s home?”

“What is this,” Steve demands.

“Bucky,” Cardozo says, “Pierce’s daughter has been running a campaign to exonerate him, keep the inheritance in the family. Now, the U.S. Attorney is trying to build a case against his estate but none of those people we just showed you are willing to give him up. They’ve got quite a bit of evidence, but remember we spoke about how each of the twelve jurors must be convinced beyond a reasonable doubt. That standard of proof might be a stretch in the Pierce case.

The American people need somebody to take the fall for everything that happened. That person could be Pierce. If you could give us anything you know about his house, or even his personal life, it could be the smoking gun. Let the government have their TV trial, Pierce’s estate goes to the victims, and everybody goes home a hero.”

Bucky says, “Do you have a pen?”

Shae slides the manila folder to Bucky and grabs at his own chest, only to realize that he’s not wearing a suit; his hand comes up against flat fabric instead of a pocket. Raza rolls her eyes at him, producing a black ballpoint pen.

Releasing Steve’s hand, Bucky leans over the folder and starts sketching out a floor plan. He makes sharp lines, filling in the boxy rooms with titles; GARAGE, KITCHEN, HALLWAY.

It’s an incomplete figure with portions of the house missing, but what Bucky does draw is eerily detailed. Four chairs at the kitchen island; the light switch in the study had a dimmer; the concrete garage floor was cracked – this big, in the corner.

“Did you ever see anyone else in the house?”

“A housekeeper. Renata. She’s not Hydra. And one time, there was a little dog.”

Cardozo looks up. “What kind of dog?”

Bucky shoots a split-second glance at Steve, then he says, “How should I know what kind of dog? A little dog. White.” Bucky draws a series of parallel lines. “This is stairs,” he explains, and Cardozo makes a note in his little pad.

“But his wife?” Shae asks. “Or his son or daughter?”

Bucky shakes his head. “Walking around is not allowed.” He points to his sketch. “This is where I could go in the house.”

“Got it.”

When Bucky’s finished, he pushes the folder back. “Thank you for this,” Shae says. “We’re going to give some of this material to the U.S. Attorney and see if we can’t come to an agreement about sharing the rest of it. Sound alright?”

“Yes,” Bucky says.

Back in the hallway, the lawyers’ flat demeanors crack. Cardozo waves the manila folder in their faces, covered in the ghost of Alexander Pierce’s DC mansion. “We got ‘em,” he says, smiling like a wolf.

  
  


Two days after Christmas, Bucky tells Steve, “I got you something.” He’s bent over a book.

“You did?” Steve asks.

Bucky closes his book, goes to his dresser, and opens the top drawer. “Yes.”

Pinched between two of Bucky’s metal fingers, out comes a tiny, shining figure. Bucky takes Steve’s wrist and pulls his hand up, manipulating his fingers into a cupped position. His skin is warm and electric, Then, he gingerly sets the figure in the center of Steve’s palm.

It’s an origami crane, made from the paper that Steve used to wrap up Bucky’s cards.

“You made this?”

“Yes.”

Steve doesn’t even want to move a finger; can’t risk fracturing the moment. “Thank you,” he gets out. For all the lavish gifts under Tony’s two-story tree upstairs, Steve would give it all away for this one scrap of folded paper.

Bucky nods. “Don’t put it in your pocket,” he instructs. “Because that will crush it.”

“Okay, I won’t.”

Steve sets it on the table while they play card games. When he leaves, the little crane goes on the edge of his nightstand, where he can turn over and look at it before he goes to sleep at night.

  
  


On the last day of 2013, Natasha and Sam show up at Steve’s door with a bottle of vodka so big that Nat has to cradle it like a baby. In Sam’s hands: a Target bag full of snacks and an unmarked water bottle of clear liquid. Tony’s super strong alcohol, he explains. Oh, Jesus.

Sam pours the drinks and raises his glass. “To a year with fewer Nazis than the last.”

They clink their glasses together and drink.

At midnight, Natasha kisses each of them on the cheek. Then, she pushes Steve towards Sam until he kisses him, too; they’re both shaking with laughter so hard he can barely brush his lips against Sam’s cheek before they fall back into the couch, gasping for air. Everything is brighter.

Natasha points a finger at Sam. “Barnes is gonna fucking murder you,” she says, giggling.

“He won’t,” Steve insists.

They play a game where you have to say something that you’ve never done and if you’ve done that thing, you have to drink. But Sam and Nat trick Steve into losing the game – never have I ever eaten boiled cabbage, never have I ever gotten a telegram.

“Never have I ever lied to the fucking government on my enlistment papers,” Sam says.

When the game ends, Steve’s water bottle is damn near empty. Has he really drunk all of that?

Steve pulls out his phone, lazily scrolls through his contacts. Bucky, his phone screen says. They’ve never texted before; they’ve written letters and they’ve talked on the phone, even. But never texting. Why? Steve opens up a message.

He doesn’t really know what to say, or why he’s doing this. _Hi Bucky_ , he sends. Steve’s probably never typed so fast in his life. He’s getting really good at typing texts, maybe because of Tony and Natasha always texting him weird things.

“It’s you that made me into a good texter,” Steve confesses to Nat.

She throws her head back, laughing. “ _What?_ ”

Why is she yelling?

Natasha stabs Steve with a finger, right in the chest. Ouch.

Just kidding, it doesn’t really hurt. Nat can’t hurt him – at least not with one single finger. Her fingers aren’t that strong, and she would never hurt him anyways.

“You,” she says, careful not to slur, “are drunk.”

“‘m not,” Steve says.

His phone makes a sound! Lightning quick, he pulls it up to his face so he can see the message.

“Who’re you texting?” Sam demands.

Sam leans real close to Steve to try and see his phone, but Steve holds it up high in the air. Ha! “I’m not texting,” he lies.

“What’re you looking at, then?”

“The internet.”

“He’s lying!” Natasha jumps from her seat and reaches for Steve’s phone, so he locks it with his thumb. Now what can they do?

Now: Sam splays out on the couch. “Captain America’s a drunk texter,” he says, very thoughtful. “I dunno what to do w’this information.”

Actually, Steve doesn’t really care so much about Sam and Nat seeing his phone because he doesn’t care about anything as much as he cares about seeing what Bucky said to him. He pulls the phone close to his face again. It’s kinda hard to read when the letters are bending.

 _Hi Steve_ , it says. That’s so nice. Bucky texted him! All the things Bucky could be doing, and he texted Steve back. That means he isn’t sleeping and if Steve texts him again, he might answer.

Sam yells into the air. “Don’t drunk text ya ex’s.”

Bucky is _not_ Steve’s ex, so it’s fine. He’s listening to Sam’s rules. This is allowed.

“Oh, leave ‘im be,” Nat’s saying to Sam. They’re off in the kitchen doing…something.

Usually, Steve might type out a message and then delete it and type a better one. Except now, he just types the first thing that comes into his head and hits send. _Thank you for the cran I love it_ , it says.

Some little dots jump up from the corner. _If you really like them I can show you how to make them_ , Bucky says.

God, he loves talking to Bucky so much. Bucky’s so fucking perfect that Steve feels like he could die. He doesn’t wanna be bothering Bucky while he’s drunk, but he honest-to-God cannot help himself.

 _Okay but only if you want to_ , he says. No mistakes! He’s such a good texter now.

Apparently, what Sam and Nat were doing is ordering McDonalds. They tell him so when they come back into the living room. Nat gets on the phone with somebody – probably the McDonalds person – while Sam assures him that yes, they did get him something. Yes, he promises that they did.

“Of course, I know it’s ‘vengers Tower,” Natasha is saying into the phone. “Nah, it’s fine, I’ll come down n’get it.”

She does not go down to get it, because Jarvis tells them that would not be a good idea. But somehow, the food gets right to Steve’s door.

They really did get him something! He eats his Egg McMuffin and some cheeseburger that they ordered, and he tries to steal one of Natasha’s chicken nuggets but she catches him and smacks his hand and yells at him.

After that, it is reeeeeallly late and Steve is getting so tired that his eyes want to close. So, he goes back to his bedroom and curls up under his covers. He wants to reach out and touch the crane that Buck gave him, but his hands are awfully clumsy right now.

He’s scared he might break it.

His eyes close.


	17. Chapter 17

“Where can I buy colored paper?” Steve asks a very hungover Sam.

Sam squints at him. “What?”

“Go to Michael’s,” Natasha says. She’s curled up on the couch with a blanket, halfheartedly watching one of the British cooking shows that Tony likes to leave on. “There’s one down by 23rd Street.”

It hits Steve that Natasha would have no reason to think he’d know where a craft store is. He’s only recently gotten back into sketching, and even now the books are mostly blank.

Steve prefers the mom and pop craft shop where he bought his 21st century sketchbook, but Natasha offers to get dressed and go with him with Michael’s, so he agrees.

On the subway, nobody pays them any attention. It’s muggy and the floor of the train car is scattered with dirty little puddles where the snow has fallen from peoples’ coats and melted. Natasha hunches her face into her blush berry colored scarf. From the way she felt when she woke up, Steve didn’t think she’d be leaving the Tower today. She’s bounced back quickly.

The store’s entryway brings a gush of welcome warm air. Natasha gets a basket for each of them, and then they go their separate ways. Steve wanders down a few random aisles before he finds where they keep the paper supplies. There’s stacks of individual sheets and thick books of assorted collections. Steve doesn’t feel knowledgeable enough to hand pick the papers Bucky would like, so he grabs one of each of the three largest books. Flipping through one, it’s organized by color and has different patterns, textures, and shades. There’s gotta be something in here Bucky could use.

Then, Steve realizes he’s got no idea where Nat has gotten off to; he doesn’t even know why she came. He wanders, peering down aisles at strangers until he finds himself among shelves of blank canvases. The plastic handle of his basket is uncomfortable against the crook of his arm, so he sets it down and tentatively picks up one of the canvases instead. It’s grooved and familiar in his hands; nicer than anything he had Before but the weight and balance is intimately mundane.

“You’ve got enough for a few phone books,” Natasha comments, peeking at his basket.

Defensively, Steve says, “I don’t know what kind he wants.”

She sighs, then turns her attention to the canvas in Steve’s hand. “You taking up painting?”

“Taking it back up maybe.”

Natasha watches him. In her basket, she’s collected a little pile of pottery supplies; a few different types of clay, new sponges, and a packet of sculpting tools.

“Get it, Rogers. Let’s go.”

When Steve keeps hesitating, Nat starts arbitrarily grabbing canvasses and tucking them under her arm. “Let’s go,” she repeats.

When they get back to the Tower, Sam is gone and the guest bedroom door is shut. In hushed tones, Natasha tells Steve a story. She was one of the smallest girls in the Red Room. An older girl once showed her an American movie; romance, because she was ten or eleven and secretly caught up in the forbidden idea of _boys_. The movie had a famous scene where the fictional couple works at a pottery wheel – “I’ll show you sometime,” Nat says. “You can watch it with Barnes” – and it stuck in eight-year-old Natasha’s head.

Steve knows better than to ask what became of this older, rebellious girl who was sneaking American movies into the Red Room.

“Will you make me something?” He asks instead.

She hums. “I’ll trade you a bowl for a painting.”

“Deal.”

  
  


The cranes seem surprisingly easy to make, and Bucky is enthralled by all the different papers Steve brings him. They cover the bed sheets, since there are too many to lay out on the table and Bucky just has to see them all at the same time.

After much deliberation, Bucky hands Steve a piece of glittery golden paper and lets him make his own crane, micromanaging all the tiny creases Steve’s got to make. It comes out pretty good – not as crisp as Bucky’s, but not bad for a first attempt.

“Where did you learn to make these?” Steve asks, watching Bucky fold up a shimmering blue crane.

“A doctor taught me.”

“Hm.”

Bucky shows Steve the completed crane, balanced on his finger like a real bird. “And then guess what happened.”

“What happened?”

Bucky glares. He stops trying to balance the crane, letting it drop from his finger and hit the table with a little pouf. “I said _guess_.”

“I don’t know, Buck. Did…did something happen to the doctor?”

“I killed her,” he says; flicks his crane off the table. “And then they took her body out of the room and they sprayed my clothes with the cold water.”

Fuck. Steve doesn’t know what to say. What can he say to that?

“Do you know why I killed her?” Bucky asks, playfully.

“I don’t.”

“Guess, or I’ll crush your crane,” he threatens.

“Did she do something to you?”

“No. Wrong. She was nice to me. But Alex took me to the shower room and she was tied up in there. He said, ‘kill her’ and he gave me the gun. So, I shot her in the head.”

It gives Steve a shivery unnerved feeling to hear Buck call Pierce by an apparent nickname. Everyone else is: Handler Lukin, Karpov, Zola, Doctor Fennhoff. But Pierce was comfortable with Bucky; he knew he had control.

“Buck, that wasn’t you. You didn’t have a choice.”

Bucky leans down and picks up the little blue crane from the floor. Its’ tiny wing is bent, sticking out like a compound fracture. Bucky pinches and twists at it until it springs back to its old self.

Then, folding his right arm across the table, Bucky lays his head down and stares sideways at the crane. He pokes at its’ delicate little wing with a metal finger.

“But I did it.”

  
  


Tony invites Steve to dinner with him and Pepper; it’s the first time since Steve gave him the Howard Stark file. Like before, the time Steve’s supposed to arrive is too early for dinner and just in time for helping with the cooking. Tony brags about how he and Natasha made up thanks to his own doing and makes no mention of their quasi-argument in Transcona. They don’t talk about Bucky or the lawyers, and it’s really nice. Steve hasn’t had a normal conversation with Tony in forever.

For dessert, Pepper puts on an act like she hasn’t done anything special, and then she pulls out a layered chocolate cake that she made in advance. It’s absolutely delicious; so rich that Steve wouldn’t have been able to stomach it a year ago. Thankfully, his stomach has adjusted to 21st century foods.

He can’t wait to show things like this to Bucky; Pepper’s dark chocolate frostings, hot dogs with all the furnishings, nova lox bagels, and bursting soup dumplings.

Tony complains he’s going to throw up, but he eats his entire piece of cake. He still has the energy to remind Steve of one of their first dinners together, which was followed up by a showing of the Blair Witch Project. Steve had been out of the ice for about a month and had never heard of found footage movies in his life. If Pepper hadn’t come into the room and explained the genre to him, Steve might’ve never left the city again.

As soon as Steve leaves their dinner, Tony’s texting him. Didn’t they just spend the last couple hours talking?

It says: _Check ur email!!!!!_

Steve’s in such a rush to get into his laptop that he mistypes his password twice. He gets in, opens a browser, types “gm” and gets autocorrect.

One unread email. Cardozo, Shae. US Attorney Decision.

_We are thrilled to inform you that we have just received word from the US Attorney’s Office that they have decided against bringing the case to a grand jury._

Steve doesn’t read the rest. He sits back in his chair, takes a deep breath.

Though the living room window, the sky is murky navy with a single strip of waning pink daylight. And every little yellow square is probably another overworked Manhattanite, bent over their own laptops, oblivious to the miracle that lives so close.

Steve sees a million things laid out in front of him like a Thanksgiving feast. He wants to take Bucky for real smoothies and show him the view from the Tower rooftop. He wants Bucky to join his morning jogs; wants the staff at their bagel shop to know Bucky as well as they know Steve and Sam. And he’ll buy Bucky anything he looks at twice – muffins and coffee cakes and anything else he can stomach. Maybe he’ll just order one of everything, so Bucky can take single bites and sips before he has to make a decision, like a pharaoh; Steve will make sure he lives in abundance just to make up for all those years where he had _nothing_.

God.

He’s free.

  
  


When Steve gets around to finding out the details of the USA’s decision, he finds the strings attached. Mainly, Bucky is going to have another psych eval with a psychiatrist that the U.S. Attorney’s Office chooses. Then, after he’s released, he’s going to have several meetings with the U.S. Attorney and her lawyers. Though Pierce and Rumlow got away, they’ve got those other high-ranking Hydra officials awaiting trial in New York county jails. Seems Bucky’s been assigned the job of helping fill the gaps in their cases.

Shae and Cardozo go in and explain the USA’s decision to Bucky. Dr. Raza is in there, too, and all the surveillance is off. Bucky is too mentally sound for Steve to be allowed in these meetings anymore, and it doesn’t seem like Bucky is going to ask for him again. He knows that’s a good thing, but it leaves him pacing in the hallway, while these people with advanced degrees discuss _legal consequences_ and _prosecutorial meetings_ with someone who’s…well, _Bucky_.

When Steve asks, Raza says, “He’s almost legally cleared, so we’ll all be working with him on the best way to ensure a smooth transition.”

That doesn’t explain anything. Steve follows her down the hall. “I want to ask you a few things.”

She doesn’t press the elevator button. “Okay.”

“I want to ask you a few things about Bucky,” he clarifies.

“Steve.” She tilts her head, dark curls moving around her face. “You know I can’t talk about Bucky with you. That’s what doctor-patient confidentiality means.”

“I know, but–…It can’t be good for him to go from having doctors and lawyers giving him all this advice – the chef downstairs has him on a meal plan, for crying out loud – to just. Me.”

“Are you worried that you won’t be able to provide a healthy environment for him?” She’s using that tone. The voice she used with Bucky on the first day they met, when she said _Can you copy this figure?_ and _You don’t remember your childhood, or you believe that you were never a child at all?_

“No,” Steve says automatically, because everything being Fine means Bucky getting released to him, which means Bucky sleeping just across the hall and curling his feet up on Steve’s couch and slipping into a breakfast bar stool in one of Steve’s shirts–

Steve says, “I just want to ask you a few questions. So I have a better idea of what I’m doing. I don’t– I can’t make things worse for him just because I don’t know how to respond to him.”

“How about I give you a referral? To another mental health professional who’s well-versed in complex PTSD and veterans and will be able to answer your questions.”

“But they won’t know Bucky.”

“Yes, that’s the idea. You can get advice from a professional who isn’t going to violate confidentiality and lose their license over it.”

Steve sighs. That’s no good at all. So, for him to get a clue about Bucky, he’s going to talk to someone who’s never even met him? No. No way.

“I’d rather just ask you.”

Raza shakes her head a little bit, like she wishes she would have pushed the elevator button a few minutes back. “What if I help you draft some questions? You can explain your concerns to me, we can write a list of _general_ questions you have about a friend who is going through a difficult time, and you bring those to my referral for answers.”

That works. It’s not great, but it works. Steve agrees.

  
  


The first time Bucky texts Steve first, it pings through while Steve’s making a very late dinner.

 _Come to my room_ , it says.

He takes the chicken he’s grilling off the stove and shoves it into the fridge without letting it cool like he’s supposed to and goes downstairs.

“Hi, Buck.” Steve closes the door behind him instead of letting it thud shut on its own.

Bucky starts giving orders before Steve can even turn around. “Turn the camera off,” he demands. Buck’s prepared; he’s already pushed one of his chairs to the corner of the room, right under the air vent with the screw camera.

“Did something happen?”

“Turn. the camera. _off_.”

Steve holds up both hands. “Jeez, fine.”

He doesn’t know why Buck didn’t just turn it off himself, if it was so damn important. Not like he had any problem destroying his furniture when… well, Steve’s still not entirely sure what brought that on.

After stepping onto the chair, he realizes he’s got no way of actually turning the thing off. It’s meant to look like a screw and even up close, there’s no visible buttons or even a way to get it out of the ceiling. Steve peers down around the room for something he can use, but there definitely aren’t going to be any sort of sharp tools around here. Instead, he pries his fingers between the ceiling and the metal vent, dusting himself and anything below him with a fine white powder and tiny chunks of plaster.

The vent comes free pretty easily; he passes it down into Bucky’s waiting hands. Buck plucks the screw camera from the vent’s shell and crushes it in his metal palm, letting the pieces drop onto the floor.

“Better?” Steve asks, stepping down from the chair.

“The robot, too”

That is gonna get him into trouble with Natasha, who’s been warning him that something like this was coming up.

Steve says, “Jarvis, disable all visual and audio in this room. Authorization code 49268358.”

“Captain, the surveillance in this room can only be disabled for 60-minute intervals.”

“Then do that.”

“Disabling them now. Surveillance will resume at 10:36pm,” Jarvis replies smoothly.

Bucky looks around the room, as if expecting some perceptible clue that they’re really been turned off. “Are there any other cameras?” He asks, stalking slowing around the corners of the room.

“No.” Steve slides the dining chair back into place and sits down.

After his second, slower loop of the room, Buck sits on the edge of the bed. “You promise?”

Steve leans in just a fraction. “I promise.” When Buck demands he say it again, Steve parrots back the entire promise.

But Bucky doesn’t relax at all. He watches the door like somebody’s about to burst through it and keeps looking up at the empty hole in the ceiling where the vent used to be.

“Did something happen?”

“No.”

“Then why all the demands, Buck? It seems like something happened.”

“Nothing happened.” Bucky scoots onto the bed until his back hits the wall and curls his legs up in front of him. “ _You_ would know if something happened. You and your friends.”

Jesus, he’s so moody tonight. Any number of things could be going on in his head and Steve’s got no earthly idea where to even begin.

“Do you want the cameras gone? Is that it?”

Bucky leans his head back against the wall and stares upwards. “The cameras don’t matter,” he says dully. “I could have broken out of here a million times. You’re lucky I haven’t killed you.”

So, they’re going back to that again.

“Well, why haven’t you, then?”

Bucky straightens up and fixes Steve with a hard glare. “What’s wrong with you?”

“You said you could have killed me, so why haven’t you?”

“That’s a dumb question,” Bucky replies, going back to staring up at the ceiling.

“I’m dumb,” Steve concedes. “Humor me.”

Bucky sighs. “You do things for me.” He laces his fingers loosely together, rests them on his bent knees.

“That’s it, huh?”

“That’s it,” Bucky replies cleanly.

Steve pulls the chair closer, so his knees touch the mattress. “Look me in the eyes and say it,” he challenges, chin raised.

Buck looks at him and smirks humorlessly. “You’re crazy.”

“Can you do it or can’t you?”

“I don’t have to do anything for you.” Bucky unlaces his fingers and crosses his arms across his chest. “You’re aaalways going on about how I don’t have to do what you say,” he throws out.

“You don’t have to,” Steve admits. “But if it was true, you’d be able to do it without all this.” He waves a hand vaguely.

“Why are you still in here?” He barks, suddenly pissed off; so, Steve knows he’s hit a nerve. “I don’t have to do what you say, and I don’t want you in here, anyways.”

Even though Bucky’s mad as all hell at him, Steve wants to smile. This irritable act reminds him of how Buck gets when you wake him up too early, or when Steve’s done something really stupid and Bucky hasn’t calmed down enough to hear the reasons yet.

“I wish you’d tell me why you’re all upset,” Steve admits, leaning back in the chair but making no move to get up.

“I don’t know,” Bucky answers immediately; it’s dismissive, no thought in it at all.

“Alright,” Steve says, “you don’t have to tell me.”

“Yeah, I don’t.”

Nothing comes to Steve, so he stays quiet. Bucky lays his head across his folded arms, chin tucked away in his elbow. It’s so still, Steve can hear the ticking of the clock.

“Why are you still here?” Bucky asks again, tired.

It just slips out. “I care about you,” Steve says quietly.

Bucky’s socked feet fidget and draw closer to his body. “Did you lie about the cameras?”

“Why would I–… No, there aren’t any more cameras. I promised you.”

They sit like that for a moment, then two, and then half a minute. Maybe Steve should leave, but he really doesn’t want to get any further from Bucky, so he just doesn’t.

Eventually, Buck turns his face into his arms. Muffled, defeated, he says, “I don’t want the new arm.”

The tone of Bucky’s voice tears at him. If Nat was right and Bucky is really doing all this to manipulate him, then it’s sure as hell working, cause Steve would do just about anything to stop him sounding like that again.

“Okay, Buck.” He says it like an oath. “Who told you you needed a new arm?”

Nothing.

“Was it Tony? Buck, he just designs things for fun. He won’t be upset if you tell him no, trust me, I do it all the time when he makes me stuff I didn’t ask for.”

When Bucky’s shoulders start shaking, Steve asks, “Can I sit with you?”

“Okay” he mumbles.

Steve slides softly across the bed, close. He rests a hand on his own leg and lets his knuckles brush Bucky’s thigh. The only sound in the room is Bucky’s gasping breaths. Bucky unfolds one arm and slides it down, haltingly taking Steve’s hand while still hiding his face in his other elbow.

Very gently, Steve pulls his hand free and settles his arm around Bucky’s shoulders instead. He takes his other hand to hold Bucky’s again, but Bucky interrupts, pushing himself into Steve’s arms so that he’s practically in his lap.

Oh.

Steve wraps him up. He hasn’t actually _touched_ Bucky since 1945. His hair brushes Steve’s hand now when he runs it across the tops of his shoulder blades, but he smells just the same.

Soft, gasping breaths snuff wetly against Steve’s neck. The skin of Bucky’s shoulder is petal soft under his thumb. “Is there something else goin’ on?”

“I don’t know,” Bucky snaps. Then, forgiving, “I don’t know. I just– had a bad day.”

Oh God, Steve wants to kiss him better.

“Okay, that… that’s alright. You’re okay” Steve soothes, petting Bucky’s hair back.

Bucky cries a little more into Steve’s shoulder. He breathes in little hitches and his metal arm stays firmly locked around the back of Steve’s neck. After a minute or so, he settles. Bucky shifts into him, a warm heaviness flush against his chest. He fiddles with the hem of Steve’s shirt, and Steve’s not sure what he’s up to until he hears the _rrrrpp_ of the fabric. Bucky’s cool thumb slips into the tear he’s created, brushing Steve’s stomach and holding him in place.

Steve smooths the hair from Bucky’s face once more. “You tearin’ up my shirts now?”

Bucky’s metal arm makes one of its little sounds. With the other, Bucky starts to push against Steve’s chest until Steve releases him. Once he gets his metal one free, he shoves at Steve with that, too.

“What?” Steve puts his weight on one foot, moving out of the bed.

Standing there dumbly, Steve watches as Bucky yanks the covers up and climbs into the dead center of the bed. He looks up at Steve.

“Are you going to stay or not?”

If he stays here, he is gonna have hell to pay tomorrow; tonight, even, if Tony tells Natasha about Jarvis being cut off. And then there's his dinner, abandoned upstairs.

“Scoot,” Steve urges. He slips in when Bucky moves over.

Bucky stays on his back and fishes blindly for Steve’s hand. He brings it to his chest with both of his own and messes with Steve’s fingers.

“Will your friends be mad at you?”

“Maybe.” Probably, if Steve’s being honest. Or: not mad but frustrated with him. Nat will think he’s being foolish. Tony will tease about sending a bill for the stuff Steve’s broken.

“For breaking the camera, or laying with me?”

“Just for breaking the camera. They won’t give a damn about me laying with you.”

Bucky keeps up fiddling with Steve’s fingers; warm brushes of skin and the smooth slip of metal. He doesn’t say anything for a long time.

“Steve?”

“Yeah?”

Taking each of Steve’s fingers, he spreads them out evenly against his chest; Steve’s palm is pressed into the thump of his heart. “When we used to fuck, in the war. Did you love me?”

Steve learned somewhere that they make skyscraper windows out of a special type of glass now, so it won’t splinter into shards and cut you if it breaks. But when Steve jumped from the Triskelion elevator last year, his exposed forearms were dotted red where the dulled nuggets of glass were just sharp enough to sting. He feels like he might have swallowed one, now. One lonely pebble floating through his body, not sharp or large enough to do anything but nick him from the inside out.

“Yes,” Steve whispers. “Very much.”

Bucky takes a deep breath; closes his eyes. He wraps his fingers around Steve’s thumb and doesn’t say anything else.


	18. Chapter 18

Steve wakes to a metallic scraping sound.

He rubs at his eyes with the back of a hand. He’s in Bucky’s room. In Bucky’s _bed_.

“That’s breakfast,” Bucky explains dully. At his table, he’s bent over a smattering of playing cards. “Your friends are watching us.”

“Good morning to you, too.” Steve sits up and swings his feet over the side of the mattress.

Bucky flips over a card. “The robot isn’t listening to me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I said your code but it didn’t work.”

“Okay,” Steve says slowly. “You can’t use that, Buck. It only works with my voice. It’s my auth code.”

Annoyed, he says, “Fine.”

Steve goes to the little food door and pulls out Bucky’s breakfast. Going marble still, Bucky follows Steve with his eyes only. When Steve sets the tray down in front of Bucky’s solitaire layout, he watches Steve’s hand with suspicion and doesn’t reach for the food.

Steve takes a few steps back. “You should eat your breakfast,” he says, just to be clear; _your_ breakfast.

Slowly, Bucky pinches the edge of the tray and slides it towards his body, staring at Steve all the while.

“I should probably go talk with my friends,” Steve says.

Bucky starts ripping his toast into little squares. “Yeah.”

“Do you need anything while I’m gone?”

Bucky’s hands go still. Disbelieving, he looks up at Steve, glances at the ceiling, and then cuts Steve down with a hard glare. “You can leave me alone.”

“Alright.” Steve gets to his feet. He’s not having this today.

“Come back when you can turn off the robot,” Bucky taunts.

Turning on his heel, Steve stalks to Bucky’s side, grabs his metal elbow – because he doesn’t give a damn, despite what Bucky may think. He yanks Bucky up and leans in close. “You saying shit like that doesn’t help me get rid of the surveillance,” Steve whispers into his ear.

Steve releases him but doesn’t leave his personal bubble, fully expecting to be shoved away.

Instead, Bucky sits back down at his table and pops a toast square into his mouth, looking down at his game of solitaire like Steve’s not even in the room. “Leave me alone,” he mutters.

“I’ll be back later,” Steve says. He gives Buck a chance to have his comeback, but he doesn’t take it.

In Steve's living room, Sam is slouched into the couch, his feet braced against the coffee table. “Sleep well, Cap?”

Blushing for no goddamn reason at all – nothing even happened – Steve nods.

“Nat’s on her way here,” Sam warns. “She’s not happy with you, just a heads up.”

“Yeah. Jesus, I figured.” Steve runs a hand through his hair.

“How did you sleep?” Natasha asks, when she comes in. Has she been spending more time around Sam or something?

Steve isn’t going to beat around the bush; they all know why they’re here. “I don’t think having all the surveillance is doing Bucky any good,” Steve announces.

“ _You_ don’t think so?”

“That’s right.”

Natasha shakes her head at him. “You are so compromised, Steve. Do you hear yourself?”

“We can’t keep him locked up in there forever because it’s comfortable. The lawyers said he was good to leave just as soon as they get that final psych eval. There’s no point in keeping up surveillance when he’s about to be free to go anywhere he wants.” He hasn’t threatened to kill anyone in weeks, Steve almost says, before deciding that doesn’t help his case any.

“You mean anywhere he wants within the state of New York,” Natasha says.

“You know what I mean.”

“Sam?” She prompts.

“Sorry, Tasha, but I agree. He’s not an immediate danger to any of us anymore.”

Gently, Steve says, “It’s not your decision, Nat. Any day now, he'll be leaving with me to Brooklyn.”

She’s outnumbered. “So be it,” she gives; unhappy but not angry. Natasha forces eye contact, almost oppressive from the way she’s looking at him. “But you _be careful_.”

“I will,” Steve promises.

  
  


Dr. Klish’s office is the polar opposite of Raza’s organization haven. There’s no neat stacks of highlighted papers. A few pens are haphazardly placed along the edges of his desk instead of collected in a little cup. His bookshelves are overflowing, with slim books shoved on top of the thick lines of beat up spines. Klish scoops up a few scattered pages from his cluttered desk, hugging them to his plaid dress shirt.

“Sit, sit.” Klish waves towards one of the chairs and sinks into the other; they’re mismatched and ancient-looking, one striped and the other covered in a garish floral pattern. “So, Steve, you are…not here for intake, is that right?”

“No. R– Maribel told me that you’d be a good person to talk about,” Steve grasps for the words she used. “…a friend of mine who’s going through a hard time.”

“Ah! Yes, yes.” Klish slaps his papers into his lap. “She forced you over here, huh?”

“What?”

“You wanted to pick her brain about this friend and she wouldn’t do it, right? That’s what it sounded like to me.”

He’s not wrong, so Steve says, “Yeah, my friend is a client of hers.”

“Right. And you filled out that consent form at the front desk, right? Just that I can’t spill anything you tell me unless you may be a danger to yourself or others, or if you admit certain stuff about kids or elders.”

Steve crosses his legs, resting an ankle against his knee. “I did. But I’m not here for myself.”

“Alright,” Klish draws out, shuffling his papers to bring a handwritten list to the top. His handwriting is blocky, like an architect’s. “Then let’s talk about how we can help your friend.”

Steve gives Klish a vague overview of the situation with ‘his friend,’ omitting details like crazy. Even though Raza promised that Klish couldn’t talk and the lawyers have secured Bucky’s release, Steve still finds himself cutting corners off stories, leaving out all but the bare bones.

When he’s finished, Klish says, “So, what jumps out to me is that this friend is moving from a fairly controlled environment to an uncontrolled one.” He carefully avoids Bucky’s name. He must know who they’re talking about; the story’s been all over the news and this situation isn’t exactly the most common.

“That’s right. And we can just call him Bucky.”

Klish gives a quirky half-smile. “Bucky, then. It can be pretty anxiety-inducing for anybody to be thrown into a new environment. We humans just don’t tend to appreciate sudden changes. I want to circle back to something you said off-hand earlier. You said that he can be a little bossy?”

Steve scoffs. “Yeah, you could say that.”

“So, he likes to give orders?”

“Yes,” he says, clipped.

“Do you think that may be just another attempt to control his environment?”

Steve runs a finger across the fraying threads of the rounded arm of his chair. “I can see that, yes.”

“And what do you usually do, when he gives orders, as you said?”

He runs through a few things he could say, and then Steve lands on, “It depends. I really only came here to talk about Bucky, though.”

Klish nods. “I know. I’m just trying to get a sense of your dynamic with him. I can’t really give you good advice on how to help him if I don’t have an idea about this relationship in general.” He scratches at his sideburn, where his dark hair is beginning to gray.

Steve rests a hand on his ankle where it’s leaning against his knee. “We’re best friends.”

“Okay,” Klish concedes. “Then I would recommend you try to treat him like a best friend as often as possible. By that, I mean not altering your routine for him unnecessarily. Let him have his comfort zones, but you should still be going out to see your friends, engaging in hobbies, etcetera.”

“No, listen,” Steve says, without really knowing where he’s going with this. Defend, defend, his brain says. “He can get bossy sometimes, yeah. But I don’t mind it.”

“Do you feel like you can or should give him orders?”

“No! Of course not. I’m–”

“Then why is it okay for him to do that?”

Steve feels like he’s getting roped into a therapy session of his own. “That’s– If it helps him feel better, then it’s fine with me.”

Klish takes his papers and drops them on the corner of his desk. “You wanted me to be honest, right?”

“Yes, of course.”

Showing his palms and leaning forward, Klish says, “My information here is very limited. Maribel didn’t say much of anything, so I’m going just off what you’ve told me. I think it would be beneficial for you and your friend if you kept up a life outside of him. That means setting healthy boundaries. If he wants you to order take out for him because he’s uncomfortable leaving, that’s okay for right now. But he shouldn't be asking _you_ to stay in the apartment just because _he_ doesn’t want to go out.”

Steve changes the subject. “About that. Eating, I mean. That’s been a sore spot for him.”

Klish slumps back into his chair. “You mentioned that. I’d recommend that you keep ‘safe’ foods in the apartment at all times. If he hasn’t been going into public a whole lot, don’t throw him into the local Trader Joe’s first thing, but I’d keep an offer open. You might also involve him in the food shopping process in other ways. He can help you make grocery lists, for example.”

“Okay,” Steve decides. Before Klish can start them on another tangent, Steve jumps into the next topic. “What if he…? After we move, if he…he’s had panic attacks or anxiety attacks in the past.”

“Well, you said he has a history of some pretty severe trauma,” Klish says, still playing along. “So, it sounds like he absolutely will have panic attacks. He will have nightmares, and he will have bad days where he’s just generally upset. In general, as long as there’s a positive trend going on and he’s seeking help, that’s nothing to be overly concerned about. Panic attacks can’t kill you, even though it feels like they might.”

“So, I should…try to help him, right?”

Klish tilts his head from side to side; saying, sort of. “You should always try,” he decides. “But you won’t always be able to.”

“Sure,” Steve says.

“You think I’m wrong?” He asks, genuinely curious.

Steve considers him. “I know I can help Bucky.”

“That sounds like it's really important to you."

"It is."

"Do you feel a personal responsibility to help him?”

The chair's tattered fabric is rough under Steve's fingertip. “Of course. He’s my friend.”

“Do you think you have more of an obligation to him than your other friends, for example?”

“I don’t know. I really just came here to talk about Bucky.”

Klish smiles at him. “Okay.”

  
  


Steve finds Bucky crunching on…saltine crackers? He’s got a Ziploc bag full of them. “Dr. Raza give you those?”

Bucky plops the bag into his metal palm, cradling it protectively against his chest. “Sam,” Bucky says, watching Steve come to the table. He slips his fingers along the top of the bag to seal it and tucks it into his lap.

Remembering what he just talked over with Klish, Steve says, “Maybe in a few days, you can come get lunch with me.” He slides into the opposite chair.

“What do you mean?”

“You could come with me, out of here. If you want. I mean, maybe we could start having lunch on the common floor or something. So, when you leave, it’s not so much of a shock.”

Bucky takes his bag and tilts it from side to side in front of his face, watching the crackers tumble over each other. “Is that where your friends live?”

“We all share the common floor, but you and I can go there whenever we want.”

“Okay.”

Steve slips the box of cards open. “Okay?” He dumps them onto the table.

“Yes,” Bucky says, “I’ll go.” With his index finger, he starts sliding random cards towards himself, one by one. He puts his bag of crackers on the very edge of the table, as close to himself as possible.

Bucky announces that he has a card game and when he explains the rules to Steve, it’s nothing he’s ever heard of before. It’s easy and quick, with short rounds that let Steve pick up the rules through repetition. The roles that Bucky assigns each of them are in Mandarin; Bucky either doesn’t know the English translations or doesn’t want to give them, because he refuses to translate.

Like most of Bucky’s stories, the tale of how he learned the game is disorganized and fantastical. He says he learned it in the 70s when he lived in a rural Chinese village. Then: no, he stayed there for a few days before killing the village leader. Finally: no, he killed an activist from a nearby city and then got stuck in rural China when his handlers forgot him there.

“Your handlers _forgot you_?” Steve asks incredulously.

Bucky shrugs. “Probably.”

The story goes on. One of the men who taught him the game had eleven children and gave Bucky a rock that was a perfect sphere. Another had eaten nothing but rice his entire life. The third and fourth were identical twins from Japan who had lived in Nagasaki when the bomb was dropped.

Steve asks, “How did they survive the blast?”

“The Americans dropped papers that told them to leave the city.”

“So, they moved to China?”

“I guess.”

The story ends with Bucky’s handlers coming to pick him up; he tells it just once and doesn’t go back to change it. They came in a helicopter, dragged him into the jungle. They took the sphere rock out of his pocket and dropped it into the dirt before taking him away; that part, Bucky seems most upset about. “I wish I had swallowed it,” he says quietly.

Irrationally, Steve feels like asking Tony for the quinjet. He could fly to China and comb the jungle, picturing how he would present the rock to Bucky and make him smile.

Really, it probably wasn’t that specific rock but rather the fact that it was _his_. It feels crueler than some of the torture methods; Bucky had one thing in the world and they took it from him; and that, Steve cannot bring back.

They play Bucky’s Chinese card game for a while, until he deflates a little and pushes his cards away. “I have a headache,” he says, putting his head in his folded arms.

Steve cleans up the cards and turns off the overhead light. Bucky gets irritated when he tries to ask how he’s feeling, so he goes for the bookshelf, leaving Bucky with his head down on the table. Steve’s been reading _1984_ for months now; it’s not a long book, but he can never find the downtime to just sit down to get through it. He settles back into his chair and flips through the pages to find the spot where he left off. Didn’t he have a bookmark in here somewhere?

Calmly, Bucky rises and walks into the bathroom. From behind the closed door, Steve can hear gagging and retching.

“You okay, Buck?” He calls, not expecting a response.

He doesn’t get one, either; but the toilet flushes and the faucet goes on. Bucky emerges from the bathroom, looking downright miserable. He goes straight for bed.

When Steve puts his book down and turns around, Buck’s under the covers with an arm slung over his eyes.

He goes to feel Bucky’s forehead for a fever, but Bucky grabs his wrist, holding it away from his face. “I just wanna see if you’re running a fever,” Steve explains. He doesn’t think he could get one, anyways.

Bucky releases him.

His forehead is only a little warm. Probably his normal temperature, if he’s anything like Steve.

“Let me get you some medicine,” Steve says.

“No.”

“We have this stuff that’s just like Advil but made for us. All over-the-counter.”

“If you make me have medicine,” Bucky mutters, “I’ll throw up. And if you try to make me not throw up, then I’ll choke and I’ll die.”

Christ, where does he get this stuff from? Except Steve knows exactly where he gets it from, which – well, Jesus Christ.

“I’m not going to make you do anything. I just– You’d feel better if you took some medicine.”

“Leave me alone,” Bucky mumbles.

It’s like his catch phrase by now. Absurdly, it makes Steve smile. Bucky could never catch even the sniffles without becoming a prickly asshole.

“Alright, I’ll leave you alone.”

Bucky must hear the smile in Steve’s voice, because he pulls his arm away from his eyes and glares up at him. “Don’t laugh at me.”

“I’m not,” Steve chuckles, completely defeating the purpose. Then, with a barely managed straight face, “I’m not, sweetheart. I’ll leave you alone, okay? You call or text if you need anything.” He goes to get Bucky’s phone, puts it on the nightstand.

Bucky peeks at the phone and then puts his arm back over his eyes.

For good measure, Steve gets a glass of water and puts that next to Bucky, too. He wants to touch Bucky’s hair, but he might get a broken wrist for his troubles.

“Alright, Bucky, I’m leaving,” he says instead and – getting no response – he slips out.

  
  


It’s not until Steve leaves the room that day that he really feels the absence of the surveillance. The observation room is permanently dark. He can’t just turn on the screens and see Bucky and know that he’s okay; that he’s eating and sleeping, or even that he’s not. At least with the camera, Steve knew about all the messed up things Bucky got up to in there.

What if something’s actually wrong with his head? He didn’t feel that warm, but what if he develops a fever later? Bucky would never, ever in a million years text Steve to admit that he needed anything. Or, what if he starts thinking he needs to hoard food again? Or–

“If you don’t sit down and eat the dinner I _lovingly made you_ ,” Sam threatens, “I’m going to stay with Nat and I’m taking my cooking skills with me.”

“Sorry, Sam.” Steve sits down even though he feels like he might spring up again. “I’m– Maybe I should go check on him.”

“No, absolutely not. Steve, as your friend, I am obligated to tell you that would be not cool of you. You said he told you to leave him alone. Leave the man alone.”

“He’s…like that, though. If something was really wrong, he’d never admit it.”

“If you can’t trust him without the help of an AI spying on him all hours of the day, then Natasha’s right and he needs to stay in there.”

“It’s not like that. It’s not that I don’t trust him.”

“That’s what it sounds like to me, man. He told you he just had a headache and wanted to be left alone, and now you’re wanting to go back and make sure that’s the case.”

“I’m just thinking– I mean, he was also throwing up earlier.”

“He’s been throwing up pretty often for the past month,” Sam points out.

“Yeah, it’s just–” Well, Steve can’t think of what it _just is_.

“It’s just that you’ve become accustomed to watching your boy like a 24-hour news cycle, and now you’ve been cut off. But guess what? I happen to think that you were right about all that surveillance not doing him any good anymore, and that includes this.” He waves his hand vaguely around Steve. “You’re gonna have to start relying on his word, and he’s gonna have to re-learn how to communicate.

If something is really wrong, then he needs to call you. He knows that because he’s a smart dude. But when you treat him like this, it’s sending a message that it doesn’t matter what he tells you or what the truth is, because you’re going to come running back to check up on him anyways.”

“Yeah,” Steve says. He turns his rice over in his bowl. “Yeah, I’m sorry, Sam.”

“It’s fine. You need to talk through it, we can talk through it. Are we done with this conversation or do you have more you wanna say?”

“No, I’m done.”

“Okay.” Sam takes a few big bites, then points at Steve with his fork. “Now, have you read that description of Lone Survivor yet? I’m not gonna let you watch it with me until you know what it’s about.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone. Only 2 chapters left after this!! I’ve mentioned this to a few people before I do have a sequel in the works. It’s looking like: 20-25k, Bucky POV, explicit.


	19. Chapter 19

By the next morning, Steve’s itching to get downstairs again. He makes himself go on a routine jog with Sam, and Sam doesn’t push for anything longer than their normal route.

They go to their bagel shop. Steve gets everything – plus a bottled tea for Bucky. Bite, chew, swallow. He’s fine with this.

After breakfast and a shower, he’s reached his limit.

“Have fun!” Sam shouts after him, shoving his laptop into a bag for his drive back to DC.

When Steve finally – finally! – gets to Bucky’s room, it’s…just how he left it. The curtain is drawn; Bucky is a lump in the bed.

“Buck?” Steve asks, going to him.

Bucky groans, pulling the covers up over his face so only his hair peeks out. Steve kneels on the floor beside him and rests an arm across Bucky’s pillow, not quite touching. Maybe he’ll be shoved back. He doesn’t much care.

“Hi, Buck,” he says quietly. When Bucky shifts in the bed, his hair tickles Steve’s forearm. Steve makes himself very still.

“I brought you a green tea from the bagel shop.”

“Don’t want it,” Buck mumbles.

“Do you still have a headache?”

“You’re giving me a headache.” Bucky reaches a hand out from under the covers and pushes blindly at Steve, who lets himself fall back a little, then pops back up.

Despite insisting he’s fine, Bucky gets irritated when Steve tries to open the windows or starts speaking at a normal volume. He resorts to his shutdown, snappy personality much quicker than usual.

Steve sits at the table with his book. Sipping on Bucky’s tea, he reads a few chapters in the grey light. Then, he plays a few games of solitaire and a version of blackjack where he’s both the dealer and the player. Bucky remains in bed until lunchtime.

When the food door scrapes open, Steve turns to the bed and says, “Your lunch is here.”

Buck burrows further into the blankets. So, he’s definitely awake.

“You want me to bring it to you?”

“No.”

“Bucky,” Steve groans. He goes and gets the tray anyway, setting it on the nightstand. Testing the limits, he tries gently peeling the blankets from Bucky’s face and to his complete surprise, he lets him do it.

Of course, he’s frowning. “You want to make me throw up.”

“No, I just want you to eat something.”

Bucky does not eat anything. He doesn’t even get out of bed.

Steve goes back to his apartment, thinking of calling Dr. Raza to warn her; they’re supposed to have a session this afternoon. But Sam was right; Bucky needs to start communicating on his own. So, he leaves it alone, trying not to feel bad about Dr. Raza coming all the way to the Tower just to find Bucky unable to have his session.

That night, his phone pings; it’s Bucky. Steve feels his heart start up like he’s cooling down from a run. They text so infrequently that he can still see the messages from New Years.

_Hi Steve. I can’t have lunch with you outside but maybe we can do something smaller like make a smoothie. Dr. Maribel says this will be better but only at your apartment_

He’s grinning at his phone. Who’da thought he could be so endeared by a grey bubble of pixels appearing like magic on his screen. It’s _so_ Bucky. He misses him, even when he’s just a few flights of stairs away.

Steve types out: _Whatever you want_ , then thinks better of it. Hesitates. _Okay we can do that_ , he sends in its place.

He flops back on the bed and lets his arm hang off the side of the mattress, still holding his precious phone. God, Steve’s glad Sam went back to DC this morning because he’s downright embarrassing.

Steve re-reads the text again, then gives himself just once more right before bed. He puts his phone down with the knowledge that the message is tucked away in his little green message app, where he can see it any time.

  
  


Even with Sam back in DC, Steve sticks to their routine. Jog, bagel, shower. Not waking up and rushing off to Bucky’s room before the sun is up.

Still, Steve’s normal morning routine involves drying off as quickly as possible and going to Bucky’s room with his hair still wet.

Bucky is laying on his back across the foot of his unmade bed, ankles hanging off one end and his loosely clasped fingers dangling over his head off the other. Steve approaches the mattress, taps at his joined hands. Keeping his eyes on the ceiling, Bucky takes Steve’s hand in his. He can’t really hold it properly on account of being flat on his back, so he grips two of Steve’s fingers instead, bringing his free arm to rest across his stomach.

Steve runs his thumb across the meat of Bucky’s palm. “Feeling better?”

“Yes.” He releases Steve – leaving his fingers cold – and gets up.

They play card games and read books, Steve carefully not bringing up their texts last night or the possibility of leaving the room.

After an hour or so, Bucky takes all the cards from Steve and packs them carefully back into their box. As always, he checks the floor around them, making Steve do the same to ensure that they haven’t left any cards behind.

“Okay,” he announces. “We can have smoothies now.”

So, they go to Steve’s apartment to make smoothies.

It feels a little like his worlds are colliding, to have Bucky upstairs with him. Having already warned the other Tower inhabitants not to barge in on them, Steve leads Bucky into the kitchen, narrating how to make a simple smoothie. At his shoulder, Bucky hovers, diligently watching each step. He picks his own fruit from the bowl on Steve’s kitchen island and drops them into the blender.

“Do you want to choose your cup?” Steve asks.

Bucky shakes his head, so Steve gets one for him. He pours Bucky’s mango strawberry smoothie and hands it to him with a reusable bamboo straw Natasha brought back from somewhere in Southeast Asia.

“Good?” Steve prompts.

“Good.”

Steve figures they’ll go straight back to Bucky’s room, but Buck lingers around a bit, peering down the hall. When Steve gives him permission to go explore, he steps down the hall like it might be booby trapped.

“This is my room,” Steve explains, pushing his bedroom door open until it taps the wall.

Silently, Bucky keeps moving down the hall. When he gets to the guest bedroom, Steve opens that door for him, too.

He doesn’t go inside. “My room?”

“No, we’re gonna go to my place in Brooklyn. But you’ll have your own room there.”

At the threshold, Bucky grabs Steve’s wrist to prevent him going further. “I want to go back.”

So, they go back and sit at Bucky’s table and sip at their smoothies.

  
  


Steve only goes back to his apartment to sleep. In the morning, when he brings another green tea from the bagel shop, Bucky starts drinking it as soon as he gets his hands on it.

Steve brings his sketch book into the room, too; he’s taken to drawing swirling geometric patterns, like the mandala coloring books Bruce tries to make Tony use. With a ballpoint pen, Steve maps out looping petals and overlapping vines.

“You called me a name,” Bucky says, screwing the lid back on. He didn’t get out of bed until Steve walked in with his tea, so he’s still busy tearing his toast into scraps.

What? “I haven’t called you any names,” Steve insists.

“ _Yes_ , you did. The first day I had a headache, you called me a name.”

The first day he– “Oh. Right. Yeah, I guess I did.” Steve wouldn’t really say that ‘sweetheart’ was _calling someone a name_ , but…

Bucky takes his drink in his hands and swishes the liquid back and forth, watching it move. “Did you call me that in the war?”

“No, you wouldn’t let me.”

“Why?” Bucky asks, around a bite of toast.

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t lie,” he says. Buck probably thinks it’s a lie because _he_ constantly claims not to know things that he doesn’t want to answer.

“I’m not lying,” Steve says. How should he know what goes on in Bucky’s head, even back then? “I’m not sure. I think you might have been embarrassed.”

While Steve fits a spiky star into the center of his mandala, Bucky makes a big deal of separating out his remaining shredded pieces of toast. He has six left, so he arranges them into two rows of three. One piece is bigger than the rest; Buck curls an edge off and eats that.

When he’s done, he eats the top middle scrap and says, “I’m not embarrassed.”

“Okay.”

“But if you said that with your friends watching,” Bucky warns, “I would be angry.”

In other words, he would have been embarrassed. “Good to know.”

When Steve finishes the last outer lotus leaves of his drawing, he hands it over to Bucky, who turns it around, trying to find which orientation looks the best. It’s all symmetric, so he gives up and settles for the way Steve originally gave it to him. With a frown, Bucky picks at the page's frayed edge until it's straight and even.

He goes to his shelves and gets his little metal box of colored pencils, brushing a finger over each of them before selecting a pale peach. Bucky’s always so careful with his coloring. He once miscounted the number of flower petals and messed up his pattern; the entire page got torn into scraps.

Without looking up, Bucky slides the colored pencils to Steve, and when Steve hands him a dandelion yellow, he finishes the pattern with that.

  
  


Bucky has never spent real time in a modern living space. When they eventually make it up to the common floor – with repeated promises that Steve’s friends will not be crowding the place up – he’s fascinated. He watches with rapt attention while Steve goes over each of the devices underneath the TV, explaining their functions until Bucky starts asking questions Steve cannot answer.

When Bucky’s got a grasp on the living room, they go into the kitchen. “Alex had this,” Bucky says, running a finger over the flattened microwave buttons. “What do they do?”

“It heats up food.”

“You have one in Brooklyn, too?”

“Yeah, they’re pretty standard now. You wanna see?”

Bucky does, so Steve gets together a little bowl of leftover mashed potatoes; Buck eats regular chopped up potatoes now, so he should be able to stomach them mashed. “You can’t put anything metal in there,” he says, closing the microwave door.

“Why?”

“It’ll light it on fire.” Steve narrates what he’s doing as he punches in the buttons and gives Bucky a warning before it goes off.

When Steve opens the door, Bucky shifts impatiently around him. “Let me,” he complains, so Steve steps aside.

“It’s gonna be hot.”

“Then how the hell am I supposed to get it?”

“Can’t you use that hand?” Steve asks, pointing at Bucky’s left hand.

Bucky looks at him like he’s stupid. “You said no metal inside.”

“ _When it’s on._ I meant don’t close the door with a fork or something inside.” What, does he think it’s going to spark if his metal fingers cross the threshold?

Glaring, Bucky snatches the bowl out with his metal hand. He sets it on the counter and steps back to let Steve turn it over. “Microwaves never heat things evenly,” Steve explains. Bucky’s eyes flick nervously from the fork, to Steve, back to the mashed potatoes. He wants some, but he won’t ask. Steve has to clench down on a sharp burst of fury; who could look Bucky in the face, knowing he’s hungry and got that enhanced metabolism, and deny him.

Steve hands Bucky the fork. He cautiously takes it, watching Steve for confirmation, so Steve pushes the bowl towards him. “It’s yours. We made it for you. If you want more, there’s a little left in the fridge.”

Bucky shakes his head, gathering the tiniest heap of mashed potatoes onto his fork.

“Okay?” Steve asks.

“It’s good.”

Bucky takes a few more enthusiastic bites while Steve pours himself some lemonade and a glass of water for Bucky. After that, though, he eats with a straight face and slow, deliberate movements. He’s going to force himself to finish it, Steve realizes.

“You wanna save some for later?” He tries, “You don’t have to eat it all right now.”

Bucky’s metal hand curls around the bowl, then he aborts the motion and goes still, suddenly fascinated with the granite countertop.

“You want more or should I wrap it up for later?”

Bucky’s breathing picks up. He shakily puts the fork beside the bowl and folds his hands in his lap, eyes flicking around the counter like a frightened animal.

“What’s wrong?” Steve asks, even though he’s got a general idea of what’s wrong. If he so much as hints at the problem, Buck’s gonna shut down and cover himself up with a shield of anger. “Bucky, tell me.”

Bucky tries to even out his breath by breathing through his nose, but he stutters. “It needs the fridge,” he bites out. He won’t look at Steve or the food, like it might just up and vanish if he shows that he wants it.

“Okay,” Steve calms. “How can I– I can take it back to my floor, so no one can get it. And you can have it anytime you want. Okay?”

Instead of answering, Bucky grabs the little bowl and holds it straight over the edge of the counter, looking Steve in the eyes. _If I take it from myself, you can’t take it from me._

Steve says, “Oh c’mon, don’t do that.”

Bucky opens his hand, and when the dish loudly cracks against the floor, he smiles. Some deep-seated frustration roars up in Steve; it feels like when he used to get unreasonably angry with Bucky back in Brooklyn, because he was generally irritated and sometimes when you’re living in somebody’s space for years on end, there’s just things that get on your nerves.

For a there-and-gone moment, Steve thinks of opening his dumb mouth, putting on the Captain America voice, and ordering Bucky to pick it up.

Then, the shock – oh God, he _almost did that_ – hits Steve and he brings it back in. Breathes in and out.

Channeling Sam and Raza – and even _Tony fucking Stark_ , who seems to be miraculously able to communicate with Bucky without pissing him off or triggering him into this instigating behavior – Steve calmly says, “Will you please clean that up?”

Bucky stares at him with big eyes, unreadable; not smiling anymore.

Steve unspools a mess of paper towels and offers them to Bucky. “Please clean it up,” he says.

Bucky looks at the bunched up paper towels, then back up at Steve. Sliding off his chair, he takes them and bends down to scoop up the splattered potatoes and shards of porcelain. He drops the mess in the trash, then takes more from Steve’s waiting hands until the floor is clean.

“Thank you, Buck,” Steve says when he’s finished. Bucky nods, still looking a little stunned at the entire exchange.

If he’s honest, Steve is, too. It’s just…resolved? For now, at least. Does that mean for the next minute, or day, or month? Steve doesn't care, he'll take it.

Bucky watches Steve’s hands, so he puts them on the counter in clear view.

“Are you mad at me?” Bucky asks.

“No. Are you?”

Bucky shakes his head. He copies Steve, offering his own hands in loose fists. The one he was born with inches closer to Steve’s, testing. Maybe he doesn’t believe that he’s really not angry.

So, Steve gently takes Bucky’s hand in his own. He gives him time to back out, but he doesn’t. Steve runs a thumb across the inside of Bucky’s wrist, over his rapid thrumming pulse.

Bucky yanks his hand free. “Can we go back?”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

In Bucky’s room, he flops back onto his bed, legs dangling over the side. He covers his face with his hands, so Steve gives him a minute and pulls a chair up to the edge of the mattress. Rubbing at his face, Bucky kicks a leg out to tap Steve’s shin; once, then again and again and by the fourth time, he’s putting some force behind it.

Sternly, Steve tells him, “Don’t kick me.”

His leg goes still and limp. Bucky slides his hands down to rest them on his chest, fingers linked together. “I’m freaking out over nothing.”

“You’re still freaking out?”

“I was freaking out over nothing,” Bucky corrects.

“You’re alright,” Steve says, “It’s not nothing.”

Bucky taps his thumbs together. “I won’t do it again.” Then, he thinks about that and says, “Well, if I do it again, then I’ll clean it up.”

“Okay then. Thanks.”

“Okay,” Bucky decides. He sits up, resolute in something that Steve is not sure he’s understanding. “We can go outside again tomorrow.”

Steve nods. “Okay.”

Bucky looks up at the ceiling like the hold on his patience is being frayed. “And you can come sit with me.”

Steve gets up smiling. “Okay.”


	20. Chapter 20

Like it’s some sort of competition, Sam visits for the weekend and starts bringing Bucky smoothies, too. Except instead of just coming up with recipes off the top of his head like Steve does, he’s gotta be Googling it or something.

According to Buck, he got a _spa cucumber_ smoothie from Sam. When Steve asks what that means, he can’t even answer; so, maybe it’s just some words Sam pulled out of his ass.

Natasha tells Steve that she plans to talk with Bucky, but she doesn’t say what they talked about afterwards; and she definitely doesn’t mention that she brought gifts. Nevertheless, Bucky gains a pair of sweatpants that might be cashmere and a handful of fluffy hair ties.

Suffice to say, Steve has some competition.

As Bucky’s days in his current room dwindle, he becomes more demanding about Steve’s Brooklyn apartment. He makes Steve sketch out the floor plan on a bunch of papers he’s taped together. Buck wants to know every detail, meticulously asking Steve to include the microwave, the pillows on the couch, and the exact number of shoes his shoe rack can fit.

It’s a good memory exercise and maybe it’ll ease some of Bucky’s anxiety about the move, so Steve obediently draws out every triviality.

“You forgot the door,” Bucky complains, so Steve pencils in a line to show which way it swings open.

“Will you lock the door when I go to sleep?”

“No.”

“But what if I run away in the middle of the night?”

Carefully enunciating, Steve says, “I would like it if you didn’t do that, but…” And this part hurts. Steve swallows. “I said you’d be free, I meant it. If you don’t want to stay, I can’t make you. Just remember the U.S. Attorney needs you in the state until you finish your meetings.”

Bucky taps his pen against the table.

“Bucky, do you think– I mean, could we come to a compromise? If you decide that you wanna…leave. Can you just tell me? Before you leave, will you tell me? Don’t run away in the middle of the night. If you promise you’ll tell me, I promise I’ll let you go.”

“Okay,” Bucky says. “Promise.”

“Okay. Me too.”

Bucky watches intently as Steve sketches out the dresser drawers he’ll soon be able to keep his clothes in. “If you don’t lock me up at night,” he warns, “I’ll be able to get into your room.”

“I know that.”

“I might escape and kill you.”

Technically, he’s not wrong. A meteor could come down from the clouds and kill them both right here in their seats. Loki and his army could open up another wormhole over their heads. “You could,” Steve admits, “but I don’t think you will.”

“I might escape and try to sleep in your bed,” Bucky threatens, but if that’s supposed to make Steve think twice about leaving the doors unlocked…Ha!

“If you’d rather sleep in my bed, you can.”

“I want my own bed,” Bucky says.

“Okay.”

Quickly, he amends. “But I can change my mind anytime I want.” It sounds like somebody told him that; it’s one of those things that you shouldn’t need to point out unless you’re not sure about the truth of it.

Steve nods. “Yes, you can.” He hands over the finished sketch of Bucky’s future room – or, where he’ll probably start out sleeping. With Buck, Steve is an unfailing optimist.

When it comes time for dinner, Bucky agrees to eat at Steve’s apartment. He’s still unable to stomach all the foods that Steve can, so they bring the dinner from Buck’s food cabinet upstairs with them. Perched at the kitchen island, Bucky picks at his food – broth with roasted potatoes and carrots, white rice, two boiled eggs, and strawberry jello for dessert – while Steve reheats some leftover pasta.

Bucky takes the bright yellow scrunchie from his wrist and uses it to tie his hair back, raking his fingers through it; Steve watches the soft strands slip between Bucky’s metal fingers, mesmerized. How do they not catch in the grooves? He wants to step behind Buck and do it for him, run his own fingers against Bucky’s scalp and feel the silkiness of his hair.

The thing about the hair scrunchies from Natasha is that they don’t wrap as tightly as the smaller elastic hair ties. So, they create these ponytails and buns where it seems like half of Buck’s hair is falling around his temples and the nape of his neck. Even the slightest movement or shift in the air makes the wispy strands catch amongst themselves; or even worse: Bucky’s eyelashes. It’s like Nat gave him those damn things to torture Steve.

The microwave goes off, making Steve jump. He grabs his pasta and stands at the island across from Bucky.

Bucky keeps taking tiny sections of his rice onto his spoon, dipping the bites into the broth before he eats them. Only recently, he’s been able to keep enough calories in his body without having to supplement his meals with protein shakes. The stuff they give him isn’t exactly typical – lunch usually includes a plain bagel with peanut butter that Bucky complains is too dry – but it works. Besides, he seems to enjoy some of it; sometimes he gets avocado, or a ginger tea.

After they eat, Bucky is so settled that Steve suggests a movie. They put on Spirited Away and Bucky stares, wide-eyed at the animation. He’s probably never seen a 21st century movie.

He’s so incredible; Steve likes this movie, but it doesn’t come close to the fascination on Buck’s face as he watches it. Steve ends up leaning against the arm of the couch, one leg stretched out across the cushions so he can watch Bucky watch the movie. For two hours, Buck speaks only in wonderous little comments – about the characters, the graphics. Animated soot sprites scramble around to gather up their colored star candies and Bucky _smiles_ , like the little boy that lives deep inside Steve’s heart.

This was the best idea Steve has ever had.

“Good, huh?” He asks when it’s over, if only to prod just one more amazed thing out of Bucky’s mouth.

Bucky sinks back into the couch. “Do you have more movies like that?”

“Yeah, the guy who made this one also made a few more. We can watch another one tomorrow, if you want.”

“Okay.”

It’s awfully late by now, so Steve says, “You wanna head back?”

“Yeah,” Bucky replies.

It’s been a good night; one of the best.

Then, Bucky takes his foot that’s been curled up underneath him and he kicks outward, shoving Steve’s leg off the couch.

“Hey,” Steve grumbles. “What was that for?”

“I don’t know.”

“C’mon, Bucky.” Please, give something up. Steve doesn’t beg, but he wants to. Please don’t spoil _such a good night_.

He gives Bucky a minute to stew before trying again. “Do you– Did you not want to go back? Is that it?”

Through clenched teeth, Bucky says, “ _You_ are making me angry.”

That’s so good; Steve’s heart swells, irrationally. It’s only been, what, a little over 2 months; and Bucky’s already doing so much better.

He has to purse his lips to keep from smiling, because that is really gonna piss Bucky off. “If you tell me what I did, maybe I can clean up my act, huh?”

“You won’t,” Bucky says, no bite behind it.

Steve loses control of his face; smiles at Bucky, despite himself. “Will you tell me anyways?”

He scoots across the couch to be closer and risks putting a hand on Bucky’s ankle. He wants to say sweet things, too; but he knows damn well it would be taken as an effort to manipulate.

“Don’t touch me,” Bucky orders, not moving.

Steve releases him.

Bucky stares at Steve’s clasped hands, motioning towards them. “You didn’t want to do that.”

“Yes, I did,” Steve says.

Bucky sighs, like they’ve had this conversation a million times before; but they haven’t. “Can you just stop arguing? If you didn’t, then. Okay? Let’s say you didn’t want to and I told you to do it anyways. Then what.”

Steve is not really sure what they’re talking about anymore. “If…If I wanted to touch you and you told me not to, then I wouldn’t do it. I’m–…What are you asking, Buck?”

He is woefully unprepared for this conversation. If they’re even having this conversation.

“You don’t listen,” Bucky laments. “I said if you wanted to.”

Steve takes a calming breath. This is Bucky trying to have a conversation with him; an important one, too. “I was listening. I said that if I wanted to touch you and you didn’t want me to, then I wouldn’t. The most important thing is that you…that you feel comfortable.”

“Comfortable with…?” Bucky prompts.

“With…– I guess, just with me. I’d hope that you feel safe, okay? You can talk to me. You don’t have to…” Steve motions towards the spot where Bucky kicked his leg off the couch. “…make demands. If you have a problem, you can just tell me.”

Bucky considers things for a while. He studies the molding on the archway between Steve’s living room and kitchen and runs a finger along the corner of a pillow.

Then, he guesses, “You could come back with me?”

There are some storms that happen way up in the clouds; Steve learned this during a nature documentary and just can’t seem to forget things anymore. Transient luminous events, the scientists call them; lightning crackling off in the treetops of the atmosphere. Snapping, firecracker-quick bursts, like the electric feeling in the valves of Steve’s heart.

“Yeah, okay,” he says.

They go back to Bucky’s room, but not before Bucky steals a mango popsicle from the fridge. In his bed, Bucky maneuvers Steve’s limbs around until he’s comfortable; he wants Steve’s arm under his neck while he sleeps, but too much clinging will get Steve shoved back.

When Steve wakes up the next morning, Bucky is perched at the foot of the bed working on a mandala coloring page, propped up by his knees and supported by a large book.

Without looking up or stopping his fastidious drawing, Bucky says, “When can we go have smoothies?”

  
  


Bucky’s just looking for structure; it hits Steve in an epiphany just a few days before they’re supposed to move to Brooklyn, and he can’t understand how he was daft enough not to fully realize it before. Half the times Buck’s gotten mad or kicked him out of the room might’ve been avoided if Steve had been more careful not to upset the status quo or spring things on him.

When Bucky gives him permission to use his whiteboard, Steve writes out a movie schedule for the two of them, extending it into the move to Brooklyn. He schedules a few safe choices first – Totoro, Castle in the Sky – then branches out to a few other things Sam and the other Avengers have shown him.

Steve puts the Star Wars movies towards the end of the list because he’s got a feeling Bucky is going to latch onto those and he’d like to delay that a little while. It’s not that he doesn’t like Star Wars, despite what Sam may think. But does he want to watch the one with the cloud planet for the 4th time this month? No, not particularly.

They’re able to make progress on the list, since Buck gets more and more comfortable being in Steve’s apartment. He stops asking Steve for snacks and starts going into the fridge to get them himself. Steve starts keeping his apartment stocked with jello cups, popsicles, and saltine crackers, so Bucky has something to munch on when popcorn is completely off-limits.

  
  


The first time Bucky has a nightmare with Steve in the room, it’s not at all like he expected. Somehow, he thought Bucky would wake him up screaming, maybe become violent and probably either kick Steve out or refuse to stay in the bed himself.

Instead, Steve comes to with Bucky whimpering in his sleep. Half asleep, with the hand that Bucky’s clutching to his heart, Steve rubs at his chest. He’s hoping Buck might settle and sleep through it, but of course he doesn’t; he thrashes his head to the side and his breathing picks up.

“Bucky,” Steve murmurs, running his thumb harder across the fabric of Bucky’s shirt.

He gasps himself awake.

“Buck,” Steve says again.

Bucky sniffs and rubs his eyes with the back of his hand. He groans, rolls into Steve’s side. Clumsily, Bucky grasps at the hem of Steve’s shirt; he hears it rip, then feels the cool curl of Bucky’s metal thumb against his hipbone. As soon as Steve starts messing with his hair, Bucky passes right out again.

  
  


The night before Bucky is set to move out, Steve goes down and finds him staring at his books.

“Do you think I can bring them all?” Bucky asks, not turning around.

“I know we can bring them all,” Steve assures.

Bucky motions towards a small stack of books he’s collected on the table. “If we can’t bring them all, these ones I need to bring.”

“We can bring them all.”

At Buck’s request, Steve runs through their plan for tomorrow. They’ll wake up when they wake up. They’ll pack everything that Bucky wants to keep and when they’re ready, Steve will start making trips down to the car. No, Bucky will not have to talk with Steve’s friends; yes, they can definitely take all the books; no, the cranes will not be crushed. Once Bucky starts to repeat his questions – just phrased slightly different – Steve urges him into the shower.

Steve lays in Buck’s bed and texts Natasha back, listening to the water hit the shower floor. It turns off quick enough that Bucky probably didn’t wash his hair, and Steve’s glad for it. He’d do anything for Bucky, but God does he hate it when Buck’s wet hair sticks to his arm and his face in these awful itchy clumps. He hates the sensation so much that during the war, when Bucky refused to stop catching raindrops in his mouth and then came into their tent soaked to the bone, Steve – in a move he would later agonize over – shoved Bucky off him and refused to hear his complaints.

Emerging from the bathroom, Bucky is dressed in a simple white t-shirt and heather grey sweatpants; the super soft ones Natasha bought for him.

His hair is pulled back into a dry bun, but the pieces that fell loose are wet and curled from the shower spray. Bucky rips his hair tie out, tossing it onto the dresser. He turns to look at Steve.

“C’mere, sweetheart,” Steve says, and Bucky comes to him, slips into the bed; warm and close. Buck lies on his stomach propped up on both elbows, chin against his curled metal fist.

Steve gets his arm free and rests it on Bucky’s pillow so he can mess with his hair. He tucks it behind his ear, lets his knuckles skim the side of Bucky’s neck. It makes Bucky shiver. Jesus, he’s the most precious thing Steve has ever laid a finger on. He nearly lets something very dramatic and presumptuous fall out of his mouth.

“Hi, Buck,” Steve says, because he needs to _talk_.

Bucky looks like he wants to respond but doesn’t. Putting a hand flat against the mattress, Bucky pushes himself over Steve, and then he dips down and presses his lips to Steve’s. It’s so quick and nonchalant, like he’s been kissing him good night all this time.

For all the times Bucky has tried to appear certain about absolutely everything since he got here, he truly looks it now; there’s no fear. So, Steve knows he’s done something right.

“I used to do that in the war, right?” Bucky asks.

“Yeah, you did.” A moment of quiet.

Barely a whisper, Steve says, “Can you do it again?”

Bucky kisses him again, giving Steve long enough to settle into the rich slide of his lips. When Buck pulls back, he sits all the way up and hides his mouth behind a curled metal hand; his eyes give away the smile. Steve rests a hand on Bucky’s bent knee, takes a deep breath. Soothed.

Here Bucky is; clawed back and reborn. Steve’s beginning and end, and the pulpy mess that’s been shoved into the intermission of them.

Tilting his head, Bucky says, “You’re still sweet on me.”

“Yeah,” Steve laughs. “God, of course. Always.”

  
  


The next morning, they pack up Bucky’s things. His cards are carefully tucked into a suitcase with all the clothes he’s gathered since he arrived. Steve brings down a little clip that goes on the bristles of his toothbrush, so it doesn’t touch anything gross. Each book is slipped neatly into a side pocket, where the corners won’t bend or crease.

Bucky takes Steve’s hand, pretending he’s been doing it all along. Steve opens the door and lets Bucky lead the way.

They step out together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omg this is actually FINISHED. This essentially turned into my quarantine hobby and if you read the entire thing, I adore you for it.
> 
> I'm still working on how to split up the sequel (bc I'm going back to school very soon, I want fewer, longer chapters). I plan on posting the first part in about 2 weeks.
> 
> Anyways, stay safe and be kind. L.

**Author's Note:**

> [my tumblr](https://brenayla.tumblr.com/)


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